


Halls Decked in Murder

by neymovirne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Relationships, Christmas, EWE, F/M, Gen, Healer Harry Potter, M/M, Murder Mystery, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neymovirne/pseuds/neymovirne
Summary: Christmastime in Hogwarts had always been full of magic, mystery and wonder, so when Harry was called to stand in for Madam Pomfrey over the holiday season, he jumped for the opportunity to get a break from his busy schedule at St. Mungo’s. Little did he expect to be snowed in with a dead body, an unknown murderer, and Severus Snape as the prime suspect. It seemed that Harry's days of solving puzzles were not over.A Hogwarts murder mystery.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 156
Kudos: 440
Collections: /r/FanFiction Prompt Challenge #16 / January 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bit late to the Christmas party, but I hope you're in the mood for a cozy holiday mystery, dear readers.
> 
> Special thanks to my wonderful beta [Sadsnail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadsnail), who made this fic happen. Her suggestions, encouragement and honest opinions have helped me to improve my writing tremendously. You are the absolute best!  
> Credit for the title goes to Sadsnail as well. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

London weather welcomed the upcoming holiday season with slush and drizzle, so Harry was not at all prepared to find himself in the middle of a blizzard when he apparated to Scotland. The snow caked on his glasses before he could so much as think about casting an Impervius on them, and it took everything to stay on his feet and not get blown into the nearest snowbank by the howling gusts of wind.

“Point me!” he said, immediately regretting opening his mouth. The wand in his rapidly numbing fingers refused to settle in any one direction.

Well, it’s not like knowing where North was would help him much.

A shadow loomed ahead, and Harry struggled in that direction, hoping it was the castle and not a mirage to lure him into the Forbidden Forest. After what felt like an eternity, he stumbled into a stone wall and stopped, unsure which way to go. Vaguely discerning a movement to his right, he turned to follow it, his flimsy coat helpless against the winter pandemonium.

The movement turned out to be the statues of two winged boars that flanked the magnificent wrought-iron gates, flapping their wings against the gale. Hermione had once told him they were a reference to an ancient wizard Chrysaor, the brother of Pegasus, and impressed teenage Ron with rather gory details of their life story. Harry vividly remembered that decapitations were involved.

He had never seen the boars move before. When he reached them, they folded their wings, settling back into their familiar repose. He would have called himself crazy to think they had tried to guide him through the storm, had he not felt the warm sentience of Hogwarts before.

“Thank you,” Harry shouted, relieved when gates swung open of their own accord. Talking to a gate might be strange, but not a soul was there to hear him anyway.

Raising his case to his head like a shield, he slogged through the onslaught, guided more by muscle memory than actually seeing the castle. His face felt like a case of a botched Petrificus Totalus overlaid by a Prickling Hex. The stairs were icy under the white cover, and Harry slipped twice before he reached the familiar massive door. To his relief, it opened readily for him and closed as soon as he stepped into the Entrance Hall, urging him lightly from behind. Hogwarts felt particularly alive today.

The door cut off the sound and fury of the wind. Warm silence scalded Harry’s ears, and the numbness thawed off from his face. Inside, sconces flickered merrily, and a half-decorated Christmas tree stood proud, visible through the open doors of the Great Hall.

“Who the hell is travelling in such foul weather?” he heard a snooty male voice drawl. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this blizzard destroyed Hogsmeade. At this rate, all the villagers will be battering down our gates demanding entry.”

“Come now, lad,” said another, more high-pitched and cheery voice, immediately recognisable as Professor Flitwick. “Hogwarts will always provide a safe haven for those in need.”

Peeking inside, Harry saw Flitwick levitating a golden bauble, while a blond man in a mustard-coloured robe was leaning at the staff table, his back to Harry. The fireplaces along the walls already sported tinsel and intricate wreaths, bringing back the memories of his first Christmas at Hogwarts, of joy and wonder of magic that had become almost mundane by now. Harry traversed the long room to the staff table, looking around with a smile on his face.

Flitwick noticed Harry first and almost dropped the delicate ornament. “Harry Potter! Come in, come in.”

The other man turned, revealing the smarmy features of Zacharias Smith, his old Hufflepuff yearmate. At twenty eight, his hairline had climbed so far up his scalp that covering it was no longer possible, but Smith still tried his best with meticulous styling and a copious amount of hair gel. An odd expression flickered across his face before it settled into a wide smile. “Harry! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Professor, Zacharias.”

“Do call me Filius, my boy,” Flitwick smiled warmly, putting the ball on the tree and getting another one from a big trunk. “What brings you to Hogwarts at a time like this?”

“St. Mungo’s is sending me to monitor Madam Pomfrey’s patient while she goes home.” He didn’t know the exact reason—nor would he discuss it with others even if he did—but Madam Pomfrey would never leave a patient halfway through recovery for anything short of an emergency.

To his confusion, Smith scowled but quickly recovered.

“Yes, bad business,” said Flitwick.

Harry wondered if he meant the Mediwitch’s family situation or the student lying in a magically-induced coma in the Hospital Wing, but before he could enquire, Smith hurried to change the topic.

“I wouldn’t expect them to send you, Harry. But medicine in general is an unexpected career choice for the slayer of You-Know-Who.”

“So you’ve said.” As a teenager, Zacharias Smith had had a rare talent to get on his nerves every time he opened his mouth. It only got worse as an adult. Every time they crossed paths—which, thankfully, did not happen often over the last decade—he would make jibes at Harry for being a Healer, as if it was somehow a failure on his part.

“I recall you being so intent on becoming an Auror during our DA sessions.”

“Plans change as we grow up.”

“That they do, that they do. We must get together and reminisce about the good old days.”

“Sure, Zacharias.” Right after hell froze over.

“I hope that you’ll find time to visit your old Charms Professor as well while you are staying, Harry,” Flitwick said, sending a sparkling star to the top of the tree. “We are happy to have you here again. Christmas is a special season at Hogwarts.”

Harry offered him a genuine smile. “Yes, Profe—Filius. It really is.”

* * *

The Hospital Wing was empty except for one bed in the corner closest to the Matron’s Office. A girl around fifteen years old was hovering inches above the covers, unconscious, her golden hair pooling onto the pillow. A half dozen well-wishers’ cards were stacked on the bed stand, under a small Christmas tree with Hufflepuff-themed decorations. An older boy in Slytherin robes was sitting by her side, reading to her in a quiet voice. He stumbled over his words when he saw Harry, who smiled encouragingly and gestured him to continue, heading past him to a small white door.

Madam Pomfrey—Harry still called her that half of the time despite the invitation to call her Poppy—was bustling around her office, rearranging the potions and medical equipment in the cabinets. A long parchment followed her every move like a lost puppy. Celestina Warbeck was crooning on the wireless, and Poppy hummed along to _My Baby Gave Me a Hippogriff for Christmas_.

“Hello, dear,” she turned to him with a smile. Tsking, she flicked her wand and dried his coat that was still drenched with melted snow. “You should have flooed straight to Minerva’s office.”

“I didn’t expect to apparate right into a snowstorm. Scotland is taking the whole white Christmas theme too far this year.”

“The last time we had a magical blizzard was back in February of nineteen eighty, before you were born. The castle was snow-bound for four days straight, with no communication to the outside world.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

“Old Horace was stuck in Hagrid’s cabin all that time, and then spent another day and a half here, ‘curing his frostbite’, as he explained his leave to the Headmaster,” Poppy said with an amused snort.

“I take it, it wasn’t that?”

“He staved off frostbite alright. By overindulging in Hagrid’s homebrew.”

“Hagrid brought some for my birthday last year. Worst hangover I ever had.”

“All Professors who teach here long enough would eventually come to me with this predicament at least once. Well, except for Severus.”

“Because he’s the one who brews the hangover cure?”

“Exactly.” She smiled wryly. “But everyone here has been my patient one time or another.”

Harry grew serious. “Tell me about the one you have here now.”

She pursed her lips. “Judith Shaw, Hufflepuff, fifth year. Got hit with Tarantallegra, mostly dampened by her Protego, and then Bone-Liquefying Hex.”

Harry’s eyes widened. That combination could easily kill a person unless treated promptly.

“A schoolyard fight?” he asked dubiously. Hufflepuff girls were not the likeliest candidates for hurling curses in the hallways. Not that the badgers weren’t capable of aggression, they absolutely were. Harry learned that lesson in his own second year, and then got a refresher in the fourth. But they operated in furtive trippings and open ostracising, not dark spells.

“Defence,” Poppy said, pursing her lips as if soured by the word. She appeared unwilling to say more.

“Somebody used _this_ spell in self-defence against this girl? A likely tale.”

“No, no. The Defence class.”

“Smith allows this kind of magic?” Harry’s eyebrows rose. Even a Death Eater disguised as paranoid Auror would not tolerate such spells in his classroom, and that one was casting Imperius on students.

“They were practising shield charms. The student who sent the hex got a detention.” She handed him the parchment from her desk.

“And she was then stunned?” Harry asked, scanning it. “Was that Smith’s doing? Why didn’t he petrify her to stop the damage from progressing and get her to the Hospital Wing safely?”

“Professor Smith explained that he’s not a medical professional and couldn’t be expected to know the procedure to be followed in this type of cases.” Poppy’s lips were one thin line by now.

“And Smith still teaches Defence after that?!”

“As you are well aware, Harry, he is far from the worst Professor we’ve had on this subject.”

“I bet this fact is no great comfort to Miss Shaw here.”

“No, I am sure it’s not.” She sighed and got back to the business at hand. “Fortunately, her vital organs were unaffected. I vanished the deformed bones before solidifying the rest and started regrowth.”

“I’ll continue with Skele-Gro.” Harry nodded.

“Let me show you my Monitoring Mirror.”

She briefed him through the use of the magical mirror on her desk, not that Harry needed that, and showed where she kept all the potions. Lately, whenever Hogwarts needed help from St. Mungo’s, Madam Pomfrey requested him personally, and Harry suspected she planned for him to take over when she retired. She dropped enough hints of that during the recent Dragon Pox outbreak. At least six cases out of the eight, she could very well have dealt with herself, Harry was sure. For all she was just a Mediwitch, decades of experience at a school full of children—playing dangerous airborne sport, messing up in their classes and getting into trouble every year—had made Madam Pomfrey more qualified in all branches of healing than most of St. Mungo’s decorated professionals.

He followed her out of the office as she led him to Miss Shaw, explaining which bones she had already started to regrow. Her stocky heels clattered on the stone floor, echoing familiarly through the vast Hospital Wing, so different from the never-ending bustle of Harry’s floor at St. Mungo’s with its cramped wards and closet-like offices. As much as he liked his job at the Paediatrics Ward, coming to Hogwarts always felt like returning home. Should she ever ask, he was not going to refuse.

“And don’t let Mr. Shaw spend the whole day here,” she said at last, turning to the Slytherin boy sitting at the bed. “It’s Christmas season, David. Go have fun. Your sister is in good hands.”

“I’m fine here, Madam Pomfrey.” The boy looked at her defiantly. “Nobody stayed for holidays except for some Gryffindor peanuts anyway.”

“Well, be that as it may.” Madam Pomfrey sighed and looked out of the window where the storm seemed to have grown even stronger, howling against the lancet panes. “I suppose I should hurry before the Floo Network shuts down. I cannot imagine going outside to apparate.”

“Better not. My magic was all wonky out there.”

“Hopefully I’m not stuck here. My future great-grandson won’t be putting his arrival on hold.”

From their conversations, Harry knew that Madam Pomfrey’s husband had died young and she never remarried, but not much beyond that. Startled, he realised he didn’t even know her age. She always seemed ageless.

David Shaw appeared to have similar thoughts.

“It’s so weird to think that Madam Pomfrey has kids and grandkids and stuff,” he said after she left with a warm goodbye. “She’s always just... there.”

“Realising that our teachers are only human is a part of growing up, or so I’ve been told.”

* * *

Harry was confronted with his own wisdom later that evening. Having made sure the next dose of Skele-Gro spelled into Judith Shaw was working correctly, he went down to the Great Hall, mostly to drag her brother from her bedside. He was at the bottom of the stairs when Severus Snape appeared, looking much the same as how Harry remembered him. He was wearing his usual black robes, buttoned up to the high collar, and his hair hung limply, framing his angular face. Years of peace had done nothing to soften those harsh features.

At least he looked much better than the last time they had met, Harry thought. Lying in the hospital a month after the defeat of Voldemort, Snape had looked like death warmed over with his sunken eyes and his skin that had always looked sallow but never that shade of sickly grey before. Harry had brought him a vial of his memories and a packet of grapes. Snape had rasped for him to get out and thrown a glass in his direction when Harry had not complied at once. Vague hopes of becoming sort-of-maybe-friends shattered with it that day, and Harry spent a longer time nursing more resentfulness over that rebuff than their previous adversarial relationship could possibly warrant.

Years later, he was over his childish offence but still found himself as intrigued by the many facets of Severus Snape as he had been back then.

“Good evening, Professor Snape,” David said at Harry’s side.

Adopting a polite expression, Harry greeted him as well. Maybe they could finally turn over a new leaf.

Looking over, Snape was startled to see him, Harry realised, although the minute tension would have flown right over his head in his student days.

“Mr. Shaw.” Snape inclined his head before narrowing his eyes at Harry. “And Potter. Honouring your alma mater with your illustrious presence?”

“Something like that,” said Harry. “I’m covering for Madam Pomfrey.” As they walked side by side through the doors of the Great Hall, Harry noticed with some surprise that they were almost the same height now, with David’s lanky frame towering a good head over them both. He always remembered Snape so tall.

With a last curious glance at them, David went to the Ravenclaw table, the only one set for all the remaining students. The only other occupants were two tiny Gryffindor girls, who smiled shyly at Harry. He had treated both of them in his time in the Paediatrics Ward.

“Poppy mentioned calling for St. Mungo’s. I’m surprised you took the duty,” Snape said, looking up at the whirlwind of snow raging over their heads. “Aren’t you afraid to get stuck here and miss the adoration of your drooling fans this festive season?”

“Not at all,” Harry said dryly, ignoring the jab.

“Over here, Mr. Potter!” McGonagall gestured to an empty place between her and Smith. Harry looked at Snape, but he was already heading to the other side of the table, to sit next to the tiny grey-haired witch, whom Harry dimly recognised as the Ancient Runes Professor.

Quite a few teachers had stayed this year. Other than Snape, Flitwick, Smith and Bathsheda Babbling, whose name Harry finally recalled, Trelawney was there, beaded bracelets on her wrist ringing as she pushed Brussels sprouts across her plate, as well as Alicia Spinnet, sitting at McGonagall’s right. The former Gryffindor Chaser was almost unrecognisable in her professional robes and straightened hair. She greeted Harry with a warm smile, which he readily returned.

The table was laden with the delicious food Harry had missed from his Hogwarts days. More options were available to the staff than he remembered the students to have: McGonagall was adding croutons into a bowl of chicken and leek soup, there was some wine Smith was generously filling his goblet with, while Flitwick on Smith’s other side had a platter of cured coypu. Jara from Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites, the only other Healer who graduated in his year, had introduced this goblin delicacy to him a year into their training. By the end of a twenty-hour shift, Harry could—and once did—eat a roasted flobberworm on a stick, but no food could come close to traditional Hogwarts fare for him, especially during the winter holidays.

“I’m glad you made it after all,” McGonagall said as Harry sat down and started piling roast potatoes on his plate. “The Floo network went down as soon as Poppy left.”

“A bit of snow and wind wouldn’t stop me from coming.”

“A Gryffindor answer,” Smith said from his left.

“Gryffindors are brave, but that doesn’t mean we take unnecessary risks,” McGonagall said, evidently interpreting his words with more generosity than Harry. “We seriously considered holding the students behind.”

“I guess they weren’t happy with that,” said Harry.

“There were a lot of grumbling and complaints, as you can imagine. Thankfully, we managed to get them on the train safely. Another couple of hours, and they might have had to stay here for Christmas.”

“You think it might last that long, Headmistress?” Alicia asked from her seat. “I’ve never seen such storms before.”

Smith made a rude noise at Harry’s left and took a large swig of his wine.

“I sincerely hope not, but with a magical blizzard, you never know,” said McGonagall.

“I need to leave early tomorrow at the latest,” Professor Babbling said, visibly worried. “This is most untimely.”

“Such unnatural weather is an omen, a grave omen,” Trelawney proclaimed at her side, raising her gaze to the ceiling. In her red and green shawls, eyes magnified by thick lenses, she looked like a giant Christmas dragonfly.

“Let me guess, Sybill, it’s an omen of a gruesome death.” McGonagall did not bother hiding the derision from her voice.

“Always such a narrow-minded sceptic, Minerva,” Trelawney huffed before putting her goblet to her lips with her little finger sticking out. Smith seemed to be not the only one indulging today.

McGonagall pointedly turned her attention to her soup.

Above their heads, the ceiling darkened as the storm raged on. His side of the table was decidedly dull. With Minerva occupied in her own thoughts, Harry was left to deal with Smith’s bombastic discourse.

Zacharias launched into an overly loud and lengthy recounting of the advice he had given Hagrid. Apparently, he used to visit his grandmother’s farm as a child, and this experience made him an expert on the care of all magical creatures. On his other side, Flitwick nodded in appropriate places, his eyes slowly turning glassy.

Harry found his own eyes wandering to a certain dour-faced professor, who was having a hushed but lively conversation on the other side of the table. Hands flying animatedly, Snape was talking to the Ancient Runes Professor. Babbling was nodding along and scribbling something on a napkin, her meal forgotten.

“Do you still enjoy your work as Healer, Harry?” Smith asked, as he did every time they met.

“I do.” As much as Harry loved his work, he often hated it equally, hated the gnawing feeling of helplessness and futility of his efforts. He was not going to say any of that to Smith, who was looking at him with a patronising half-smirk. This was something he only shared with Ron and Hermione, and Jara the quarter-goblin Healer, and only when he was well into a bottle of Firewhiskey.

Alcohol. Harry eyed the wine longingly, wishing he was not on duty. This might just be the only way to survive this dinner without murdering Zacharias Smith.

* * *

Although Madam Pomfrey insisted Harry make himself at home in her quarters, he still felt like an intruder. Partially for this reason, and because Hogwarts brought back too many memories—some cherished, some best left buried—he ventured for a midnight stroll through the familiar halls. He walked past the Defence classroom, remembering all the professors that taught there: the good, the bad, the ugly, the outright insane. He tiptoed past the History of Magic classroom with its door ajar, where Binns was dozing away inches above his seat, before remembering that the curfew did not apply to him. Stepping onto the Grand Staircase, he reflexively skipped the vanishing step, as if those dozen years away from Hogwarts did not exist.

There was a flurry of activity in the portraits, witches and wizards hurrying through frames to the first floor. A familiar knight was spurring his laggard pony through the landscape of some picturesque clearing.

“Sir Cadogan?”

“I salute you, young hero!”

“What’s going on?”

“Bridge night at Tapestry Corridor! I shall thwart those worthless braggarts this time!”

“Good luck.” Harry smiled as Sir Cadogan rode on.

Another figure stepped onto the staircase from the third floor, swaying dangerously as he moved. Harry waited at the bottom and caught an unsteady David Shaw by the elbow. David’s school robe, thrown over a hoodie with the picture of a wolf howling at the moon, was partly tucked into his jeans. Harry was honestly at loss what the boy had attempted to do with it.

“David? Wandering around the castle after curfew?” Harry tsked. He did his fair share of night-time wanderings as a student, but never so overtly. Weren’t Slytherins supposed to be sneaky? Then again, an unmistakable shape of a bottle bulging the pocket of the robe might have been an answer.

“‘I’ve been studying in the library,” the boy giggled.

“Library? And Madam Pince let you in at this hour?”

“She’s not here until after Christmas. She actually locked it, old ha—Anyway, Professor Babbling is using it and she keeps it open for me.”

“So you decided to spice up your reading by bringing contraband booze?”

“Actually, no.” David lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was already there. The Ravenclaws keep a secret stash in the Rerefe—Renefe—one of the sections.”

“Right. I think we’d better get you to your dorm.”

“Uh-uh! Weren’t you a Gryffindor? You aren’t allowed to know where it is!”

“Too late for that, mate.”

David scrunched his face in sudden dismay. “You aren’t going to tell on me, Healer Potter? Please don’t tell Snape!”

“I won’t, but only if you promise me to go straight to bed.”

“I will,” David said solemnly.

“And give me that bottle in your pocket.”

With a dejected look, David complied. The Ravenclaws’ drink of choice turned out to be Muggle rum.

They reached the dungeons without incident. David comically tiptoed past the door to Snape’s office, tripped and was only prevented from face planting by Harry’s quick hand. Despite what Harry said, he did not remember which wall exactly the Slytherin common room was behind since his first and last visit here had been in his second year. Paranoid snakes could have at least put some tinsel on it.

Luckily, David knew where to go, and Harry left him at the threshold, where he stage-whispered the current password, leaving Harry with no choice but to learn it (‘Golpalott’).

The dungeons were always chilly in winter, and more so at night. Harry breathed on his freezing fingers before putting his hands up to the nearest sconce.

“Still intent on defacing school property, Potter?” The velvety baritone behind Harry made him jump up and twist around. The portrait of dozing Paracelsus was slid to the side, and Severus Snape stood in the opening that led to what had to be his living quarters, cutting a striking figure between shadows and light. Despite the late hour, he was still buttoned up to his chin.

“Keeping myself from turning into an icicle is hardly defacing. I don’t know how you Slytherins manage in this freezer.”

“Slytherins are not cavemen. We don’t need an open fire to warm ourselves.”

“I don’t know. You have to admit, the dungeons look a bit cave-y.”

The ire that flashed in Snape’s eyes could petrify a lesser person on the spot, basilisk-like. “If there is cavemen house, it’s undeniably Gryffindor, brandishing their clubs without rhyme or reason—”

“Hey, I meant no offence.” Harry raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m sure,” he scoffed. “What are you even doing wandering around the dungeons at this hour? Reliving your glory days of troublemaking?”

“Something like that.” Harry was determined not to rise to the bait.

“I don’t know what Poppy was thinking asking you here.”

For the first time, he felt a spark of annoyance. “Believe it or not, I’m good at my job.”

“That remains to be seen. Why aren’t you at Miss Shaw’s side right now?” Snape demanded.

“I only need to actively monitor her right after another dose of Skele-Gro, and then I just check up on her every two hours or so.” Harry fished out the monitoring mirror from his pocket to show Snape briefly. “And the Hogwarts version seems to be working faster than the one we use at St. Mungo’s, so this also speeds up the process.”

Snape’s lips twisted in a smug smirk. “It’s because you have amateur brewers working there.”

Lee was far from an amateur but no potions genius, so Harry had to admit that Snape’s crowing was justified, if uncharitable.

“And you have amateur teachers working here.” Before Snape took that as a personal insult as well, Harry quickly added, “What was Smith thinking?”

“A Cornish Pixie with a wand has more sense than Zacharias Smith.”

“Are decent Defence teachers still so hard to come by?”

“Minerva announced that the curse was lifted, and Smith’s predecessor survived six years on the job. But the forty years of bad luck are still fresh in everyone’s memory, so there wasn’t exactly a queue of applicants.”

“When you say ‘survived’—”

“During the summer holiday several years ago, Marcellus disappeared on his centennial trip to the Bermuda Triangle with the Atlantis search party, and nobody heard from them ever since.”

“Hope that means they found it.” Harry grinned. Somehow, this isn’t even among the top ten strangest things to happen to the Defence professors in his memory.

An especially cold gust travelling through the dungeons made the sconces flicker and Harry shiver. Snape looked back into his quarters where the flames were dancing merrily in the fireplace as if actually considering inviting Harry in.

Harry waited with bated breath, but the moment passed, and Snape seemed to come to his senses.

“Go back to the Hospital Wing before you fall victim to your inability to cast the simplest Warming Charm and I'm blamed for your death, Potter,” he said with a scowl.

“See you tomorrow then, Professor.”

The portrait slid back behind Snape, and Harry turned away, surprised at his disappointment. Did he really expect Snape to invite him in for a nightcap? More importantly, did he want him to?

* * *

The next morning met Harry in high spirits. Humming a carol Sirius had taught him that one Christmas they had together, he took a quick shower in the ensuite bathroom of Madam Pomfrey’s guest bedroom. He was up well before dawn, and it was still dark when David Shaw entered the Hospital Wing moments after Harry finished the check-up on his sister.

“Here so early? How’s your head?” Harry asked with a wry smile.

The boy winced, cheeks filling with colour.

“Do you need a Hangover Potion? I think Madam Pomfrey has one somewhere.”

“No, I’ve already had one.” The boy frowned and reddened even deeper. “I thought it was you who sent it to me.”

“No, not me.” It seemed Snape heard more than he let on the night before. “Have you had breakfast already?”

“Not yet. I came straight from the dorm.”

“Well, that just won’t do. Let’s go, Mr. Shaw,” he said. “You can visit your sister after you’ve got your most important meal of the day.”

“It’s so weird when the castle is this empty,” David said as their steps echoed loudly, unobscured by the usual noise of students rushing to their morning classes.

“First time staying for Christmas?”

“Yeah. I’ve stayed for Easter holidays a couple of times before, but usually half of the school does too.”

“When I was a student, we tended to have more people at Christmas, but not by much. I’ve never had a common room for myself, though.” Harry thought about all the times his friends stayed with him instead of going home and felt a rush of love for them, with a self-conscious aftertaste of feeling like an imposition, even after all these years.

Their steps echoed loudly, unobscured by the usual noise of students rushing to their morning classes. The first sign of life was a hooded figure struggling with the front door, to no avail. As if irritated with a pest, the door suddenly flung itself open, and the person stumbled back under the assault of wind and snow, only their broom preventing them from planting their arse on the floor. The door shut with what appeared to be a smug bang.

The grey hood lowered, revealing a harassed Oliver Wood, swearing under his breath.

“Oliver?” Harry called out, going down, a curious David following close on his heels.

Oliver looked up from the broom he had been inspecting, running concerned fingers over the twigs on the tip. “Harry! Haven’t seen you in ages, old man!”

“Congratulations on making the English team!” Oliver was a Keeper for Puddlemere United, and had recently been chosen to represent England in this year’s World Cup. Harry, Angelina and George had cheered their old teammate’s placement in their favourite pub along with Ron, who had not shown much loyalty to the fellow Gryffindor Keeper. Instead, he bemoaned the Cannons’ Whistley—a surprisingly promising boy one year out of Hogwarts—losing in the last selection round. Coming from a particularly exhausting shift, Harry had needed only half a firewhiskey to fall asleep right where he had been sitting. From George's account, Harry had snored the night away in the corner. George himself had celebrated with his wife and the regulars and winded up his brother until the early morning hours, only Flooing Harry home after he had lost his fourth game of darts.

“Thank you.” Oliver beamed.

“Didn’t know you were here at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I’m, erm, just visiting a friend.” Oliver’s cheeks reddened. He turned back to glare at the door it as if it had just scored a goal against him. “I have a training session in an hour, and really must be in Dorset now.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to leave until the storm is over.”

“It’s simply not on, mate.” He braved the handle again, but the door stayed stubbornly shut, causing another string of muttered swearing.

“What’s the commotion, boys?” a voice asked behind Harry’s back. Professor Babbling walked up to them, surprisingly spry for a woman likely in her hundreds. She resembled an onion with her wool robes thrown over a mustard cardigan, which she had topped off with a sweater and an exceptionally long scarf around her neck.

Alicia Spinnet had come down with her but headed straight to the Great Hall, giving a nod to Harry and David. From the loaded look she shared with Oliver, Harry guessed she was the ‘friend’ he had meant.

“I really need to leave, Professor.”

“I would like to get home too, sweetheart, but it seems we don’t have that option.”

“You don’t understand—“

“If the castle won’t let you leave, it’s for a good reason, believe me. Now, the house-elves at Hogwarts make the best mulled wine this season—”

A high-pitched scream from the Great Hall brought the conversation to a sharp end.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry rushed inside, the others short on his heels. A cold sense of foreboding trickled down his spine. So many of his Hogwarts memories involved terrified shouting, and he did not need Trelawney’s crystal ball to brace himself for the trouble that was sure to wait ahead.

At the opposite side of the Great Hall, Alicia stood over a prone figure laying half sprawled over the staff table, the tablecloth underneath stained an alarming red. Coming closer, Harry recognised Zacharias Smith’s straw blond-hair. At first glance, he couldn’t see any signs of a struggle, the breakfast dishes around Smith still pristine in their settings.

Healer instincts taking over, Harry was already casting diagnostic charms without being aware of even drawing his wand. He reached to the tablecloth and smelled his fingers cautiously. Not blood, wine from the goblet lying overturned at Smith’s hand. Was the man drunk? Alicia was babbling too hysterically for that, but Harry ignored her, concentrating on Smith, whose skin was cold to the touch. He felt no pulse even as his spells told him the same. Too much time had passed for any intervention, magical or muggle.

Harry dragged Smith up by his shoulders, already knowing what he was going to see. The sight of the not-quite grimace and vacant, fixed eyes made Professor Babbling at his side gasp, her hand over her mouth. The discoloured froth dried around Zacharias’s lips was not at all natural.

“Why is it blue?!” Alicia wailed.

“This can’t be happening right now.” Oliver paced back and forth in front of the table, head lowered against his broom.

Close by, David was looking at the body with wide eyes, startlingly similar to Smith’s in colour and stillness.

Girlish voices resounded throughout the Hall, their loud cheerfulness jarring in the face of Smith’s somber end.

“Don’t let the students see this,” Harry said when nobody moved.

The two first-years halted near the Christmas tree, confusion on their faces.

Waking from her reverie, Babbling gave him a faint nod and ran over to usher them back.

“What’s happening here?” McGonagall’s Scottish brogue sounded from the doors.

“I think Professor Smith is dead,” one of the girls said, while the other was craning her neck around Babbling to see the body better.

“What utter nonsense, Miss—Zacharias?” McGonagall halted and repeated Babbling’s earlier gesture, her hand fluttering to her mouth.

“Somebody poisoned him!” Alicia cried. “It must be the wine!”

Harry intercepted her hand as she reached for the goblet. “Let’s leave the evidence for the Aurors.” He gently closed Smith’s eyes and levitated him from his seat to hang suspended over the table, careful not to disturb anything. Despite his confident tone, he was not actually sure what the correct procedure was here, and the muggle crime novels he was fond of reading were not of any help.

The dead body looked incongruous and almost indecent suspended against the backdrop of the glittery Christmas tree. Even in death, Smith managed to tarnish something that Harry held dear, he thought resentfully.

“If we can’t leave, how are the Aurors going to come?” Oliver asked, resuming his pacing.

“The Floo network is still uncooperative, and I suspect will remain so until after the storm is over,” said McGonagall.

“We can’t just leave Zach like that!” Alicia was tearing up again.

“I’ll put the body under a special stasis charm,” Harry offered. “But moving him from the Great Hall would be for the best.”

Memories of the war flooded through him. Yesterday’s feast had kept them at bay, but Smith’s body, lying here in the crisp light of day, brought back the images of Remus and Tonks at the exact spot. He forcibly shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind. Now was not the time.

“I didn’t think I’ll see the young dead here again,” McGonagall said, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. In her black robe, she looked as if already in mourning, weary beyond her years. She turned to the visibly trembling David, who had been silent so far. “My condolences, Mr. Shaw. I know you were not close to your Uncle—”

Smith was the boy’s Uncle?

“You are right, Headmistress. We weren’t close.” Dragging his eyes from the body, he looked at McGonagall and then at Harry. “Excuse me.” With that, he turned on his heel and ran out of the Great Hall.

“Poor boy,” said McGonagall. “I hoped the younger generation would be spared from—”

“Are we going to just ignore that somebody in the castle has poisoned Zacharias?” Alicia demanded, her voice rising shrilly.

Severus Snape chose this moment to appear. “What’s this commotion? Mr. Shaw has just rushed past me as if he saw a ghost.” His step faltered almost imperceptibly when he saw the body floating over the table, and his face turned into a tight mask. “I see.”

Her voice rising a hysterical octave, Alicia pointed her finger at Snape. “It’s you! You killed him!”

It took some time for Harry and McGonagall to calm down Alicia who attempted to pounce at Snape with her fists. Snape himself stood motionless and silent, not even getting out his wand when Alicia threatened to hex him, not that Harry thought she actually had a chance. Through it all, Oliver was sitting at the Gryffindor table, doing nothing to soothe his agitated paramour. Instead, he was glaring at his broom in front of him, making Harry wonder about his priorities.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "We are all very upset, but let’s not fling accusations about, Professor Spinnet.”

“He is a former Death Eater who can brew any poison imaginable. Who else could it be?”

Several expressions flitted across Snape’s face: hurt, fury, resignation, before he settled into a sneer. “What possible reason do I have for poisoning our esteemed colleague?”

“This! This right here! You’re always belittling him! Just yesterday, you called him an inane buffoon at breakfast! You hated him!”

“If I murdered everyone I ever insulted, there would not be a single soul left in Hogwarts.”

“This is not the time for jokes, Severus.” McGonagall searched Snape’s face as if trying to parse the truth.

“Are you also suggesting I had something to do with this, Minerva?”

“Of course not. We’ll wait for the storm to end, and the Aurors will find the culprit.”

Snape held her gaze. She looked away first.

“I’m sure they will.” He turned to the body, nostrils flaring.

Harry felt for the man, even though he was sure Snape would skin him alive for any display of pity. But it seemed that McGonagall was once again willing to believe the worst of Snape, or at least entertain the possibility. Alicia’s accusations must have been a bitter pill to swallow coming from a colleague, even though Snape might not have much regard for her, but McGonagall should have known him better than that.

“I’ll have the wine and Smith’s blood examined to identify the poison used.” Snape’s voice was even, as if he was in his classroom, standing over a cauldron and not a dead body.

“Ha! Let’s allow the cat to investigate the mice’s disappearance,” Oliver scoffed, speaking up for the first time. His cloak was still on, if undone, its sleeve hitched up so he could glance at his wristwatch every other minute.

Snape didn’t deign that with more than a withering glare.

“I actually think it’s a good idea. Some poisons don’t stay in the body, even under stasis,” Harry said. “Aurors can always run their own tests afterwards," he added, forestalling Alicia’s protests.

“Harry Potter, our new potions expert.” Snape curled his lip.

Harry drew a fortifying breath. “I’m a Healer; our training included a good deal of potions knowledge, poisons in particular. Believe it or not, I passed all my exams and completed my hours in the Poisonings Department."

“Remembering your performance in my classroom, I weep for the state of our healthcare today if this is the case.”

Right. It seemed Snape was determined to be as big of a git as he had ever been. Harry’s sympathy was fading quickly, replaced by irritation.

“Don’t let any of the evidence into his hands, Harry,” Alicia said. She sagged against the wall behind the staff table with a heaving breath. “Oh, poor Zach.”

“I doubt Professor Snape would be stupid enough to poison Zacharias like that.”

“Like what, Potter?” asked Snape. He looked at Harry like he would at a cauldron waiting to boil over.

“In the middle of the Great Hall and with incriminating evidence lying around.”

“If it looks like a Bludger and is coming in your direction, you first accept that it is, in fact, a Bludger and move as far as you can from it, and only then decide if it maybe was something else,” said Oliver.

“Clearly, you are a man of great wisdom.” Snape bared his teeth.

“I’ll contact the Aurors as soon as I get to my training camp.”

“How are you going to accomplish that in a magical storm, you nitwit?”

“I was thinking about trying one of the hidden passages to Hogsmeade and apparating from there.” Oliver jutted his chin before checking his wristwatch.

“Hogsmeade must have the same problems with the Floo network as we do,” said McGonagall.

“I’ll simply apparate.”

“And your foolish corpse would be no doubt somehow blamed on me as well,” Snape said.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Well, this is a moot point anyway.” McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “All the passages were blocked after the war.”

“What are you even doing here, Wood? Seeking employment after Saturday’s fiasco?”

Oliver blanched, hands curling into fists. That was a low blow from Snape, if understandable after his accusations. Despite Puddlemere’s Seeker catching the snitch, the Falmouth Falcons won 420:410 after Oliver missed two Quaffles in his hoops within the last ten minutes of the game. The Prophet questioned the wisdom of giving him the Keeper spot on the English team for the World Championship, even going as far as to list other Keepers who could potentially replace him.

“I don’t need a new job, Snape,” he barked. “And you soon won’t either. It will be hard to keep it all the way from Azkaban.”

“Mr. Wood, there’s absolutely no need for this sort of remarks. And while I’m happy to see all the alumni back at school, Severus’s question is valid under the circumstances.”

“He was visiting me, Headmistress,” Alicia said, defiance in her puffy eyes. “And did not leave my quarters from the dinner yesterday until half an hour ago.”

McGonagall’s lips turned into a thin line. She opened her mouth to say something before shaking her head slightly. “No matter. We need to notify the rest of the remaining staff.”

“And see if there are any other unaccounted guests staying,” Snape added.

McGonagall shot him an annoyed glance. “And that.” She looked at Smith’s body, visibly at a loss. “Where do we...”

“The Hospital Wing is occupied by Judith, but we can partition a bed there,” Harry suggested. “That way I’ll be able to keep an eye on the body.”

“The body!” Alicia cried, standing straighter. “How can you be so clinical, Harry?! It’s Zach, your friend!”

Harry had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from commenting on that ludicrous statement. Instead, he simply said, “I’m a Healer, Alicia. We must keep a cool head in situations like these.”

“Right.”

“But I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he added belatedly.

McGonagall drew her wand and brought it down in a corkscrew motion. The sound of a gong reverberated through the castle, making the floor vibrate. She repeated the spell two more times. “The teachers will know to go to the staffroom,” she explained to Harry and Oliver, startled from glaring at his watch.

Harry carefully levitated the body from the table. “We should protect the scene in case the poisoner comes back while we are all there.”

“Just keeping an eye on certain teachers would be enough, I’d say.” Oliver got up, finally shedding his cloak.

“I’ll arrange for one of the ghosts to guard the doors,” McGonagall said with a furrow of her brow.

“I shall accompany you, Potter. You might lose a body part along the way, but I shall be the one to explain its absence to the Aurors.”

“I can manage the first-year spell just fine,” Harry said through his teeth. Having the second wand would make his task much easier, but Snape did not have to be such a prickly bastard about his offer.

Oh, who he was kidding. Snape absolutely did. The man seemed to be no more able to refrain from having a dig at him than the late Zacharias could have from being a pompous prat.

* * *

The solemn procession with the body of Zacharias Smith floating in front went out of the Great Hall and split. McGonagall, Alicia and Oliver headed for the staffroom while Harry and Snape directed the body upstairs. On their way, they came across Flitwick coming down. The tiny Professor gasped and almost missed his step off the moving staircase, eyes widening under the bushy brows.

“Come, Filius, I’ll explain everything,” McGonagall called him with a sigh.

Snape opened the door to the Hospital Wing and stood stiffly as Harry lowered the body on the cot at the opposite end of Judith’s and conjured a screen around it. From his many stays here, Harry remembered Madam Pomfrey having curtains somewhere but did not want to rummage through her things any more than necessary.

His companion had no such apprehensions. When Harry turned to check briefly on Judith, Snape marched to one of the cabinets and took out an empty glass vial.

“I will draw some blood for examination,” he explained. A scowl crossed his face. “Or you can do it yourself to make sure there are no undue manipulations. I believe you know the procedure?”

“I trust you to do it.”

“Do you think it’s wise, Potter?” The words dripped with irony.

“I don’t think you had anything to do with this, Snape. Not your style.”

“And what would be my style, pray tell? Flinging him from the Astronomy Tower?”

Harry choked on a laugh. “Wouldn’t do to repeat yourself, now would it,” he muttered.

“What did you say?”

He coughed, feeling guilty at once. “If you absolutely needed to poison somebody, I’m sure you know a hundred ways to make it look like an accident,” he said louder. “A slow-acting formula that would look like a natural disease and never be traced back to you, like _Cantarella_ or something.”

Snape looked at him in surprise that he quickly hid under a scowl. “Dabbling in dark potions, Potter?”

“You still seem to have trouble believing it, Professor, but I’m a fully-trained Healer now. We need to know poisons to be able to cure people of them.”

Instead of a reply, Snape turned to Smith, rolled the sleeve up the pale limp hand, and put his wand to the forearm. “ _Sangvento_ ,” he articulated, clearly for Harry’s benefit. The vial in his other hand slowly filled with dark blood. He put it to his eye level and frowned.

“What is it?”

“I’ll inform you after I have the results,” he said. “I’ve noticed you’re remarkably unconcerned about the demise of your supposed friend.”

Harry filed this deflection away. “I’m not sure why everybody decided he and I were friends.”

“No? Smith seemed to believe so. Why, back in September, he would tell anybody willing or unwilling to listen about your meeting over coffee.”

“What?” Harry furrowed his brow. “In Septe—Oh, that. I guess we did, in a strict sense of the word.” At Snape’s unimpressed look, he elaborated. “His mother is the Head of my Ward. He came to see her and ventured into the doctors’ lounge, where we—my colleagues and I—were having coffee. He himself refused to drink it, though. Said he’d rather have poison from your stores than our swill.”

“Charming.”

They stayed silent for a minute, staring at Zacharias’s slack face. Harry disagreed with Healer Smith on virtually everything, from patient treatment to whether jeans should be allowed under the Healer robes, and saw her as a stuck-up pureblood who was not half as progressive as she thought herself to be. He wouldn’t, however, in a million years wish burying her son upon her. Suddenly contrite about his earlier callous words, he vowed to try and find the culprit while they were snowed in.

He glanced at the Roman profile of the man beside him. Snape appeared to be deep in thought, dark eyes holding a faraway expression. Harry wondered why he believed in the man’s innocence, where in the past he would have been determined to believe the worst. Maybe he did kill his colleague, after all. Harry knew nothing about their history in these recent years. Besides, Smith _could_ bring one to homicide, just by being himself.

But no, even though they had not seen each other for years, he knew who Snape was behind that barbed tongue. Of course, the man himself would vehemently oppose the notion, throwing some insults about Harry’s intelligence and arrogance for good measure. But he knew that for all his faults, Snape was no cold-blooded murderer, and more importantly, he was not stupid.

“What are you staring at, Potter?” Snape asked without turning his head.

Naturally, Harry could not share any of his thoughts with their object for fear of being hexed, so he drew his wand and ran several diagnostic charms. The fact that he was only thinking of them now to cover up his awkwardness was a little embarrassing.

“The time of death is around five thirty,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall with its short hand pointing west. “I’ll leave the full autopsy for the experts but examine the body later if it turns to be necessary. Your blood analysis should be enough for now.”

“I’m sure you’ve waited long for this chance to order me around,” Snape said waspishly.

Harry bristled. “This not what I meant and you know it.”

“Do I?”

Harry thought back to his words. “I guess I reverted back to my work habits. That’s what I’d say to our resident poisons expert, and I certainly wouldn’t mean any disrespect by that.”

“That would be a first,” said Snape. He reached for the pocket of Smith’s robe and took out his wand.

“Oh, I didn’t think of that!” Harry exclaimed and braced himself for the inevitable barb about his thinking abilities. He walked right into it, he guessed.

To his surprise, however, Snape said nothing, even though the unspoken remark felt loud and clear between them. Whenever Harry thought he figured the man out, Snape always found a way to surprise him.

“ _Priory Incantato_.” Snape touched Smith’s yew wand with his own. Plain maroon wood contrasted starkly against the carved light handle.

A translucent goblet appeared in the air, and an equally ghostly wand tapped it. In a few seconds, the goblet was filled. The last feat of magic Smith did was to request some wine from the kitchen.

In reverse order, the wand then revealed _Accio_ , _Lumos_ , and the Shoe-Lacing Charm.

“Who ties his shoelaces with magic?!” Harry asked. This spell came in handy several times a week with children, especially when they were too busy throwing a tantrum to bother, but the idea to use it on himself never once crossed his mind.

The shadow of a cork shot up from the wand.

Harry watched as it slowly dissipating over their heads. “Oh. So he was already sloshed.”

“It appears so.”

“He might already have been a bottle in when he came to the Great Hall. We must check his room. Maybe his own bottle was poisoned, not the wine from the kitchen?”

“That’s a possibility, I suppose, but this poison appears to be a fast-acting one.” Snape stuffed the wand back into Smith’s pocket unceremoniously. His expression turned snide. “Eager to play a detective?”

“Oh, why do you always have to be so…”

“So?” he prompted, as if genuinely curious.

“You know what? Let’s go to the staffroom. I bet everyone is there already.”

“After you, Potter.” Snape made a mocking gesture with his hand.

Harry suppressed a sigh of exasperation.

* * *

The staffroom was indeed full when they entered. The voices speaking over each other were heard even through the closed door, but the conversation turned into an awkward silence when Harry and Snape entered. Snape strode to a well-worn plush chair in the corner with his usual flair, seemingly unbothered, although Harry had noticed the tightening in his jaw as he sat down.

There was food on the tables, even though no one except Oliver seemed to be eating. Alicia was attempting to burn a hole in him with her stare from across the desk as he dug into his full English enthusiastically. Her glare only intensified when she looked over at Snape.

“Back from seeing his handiwork already,” she muttered, too loud for it not to be deliberate.

“Professor Spinnet!” McGonagall said in a forceful tone of voice from her place at the larger table in the middle of the room. “We’ve just talked about—” She cut herself off, sending a glance at Snape herself.

Snape pointedly studied his nails.

“I took the liberty of ordering us food here and arranging with the house elves to serve breakfasts for students in their common rooms,” Professor Babbling said from across McGonagall. She took taking the toast from one of the many plates on the table and slathered it with jam. “The girls were most upset. And curious. I myself don’t remember having such a morbid imagination at that age.”

Harry took the seat next to her. Flitwick had his own child-sized chair and table, and a haggard-looking Filch was skulking in the shadows behind the fireplace, leaning heavily on his cane.

The door opened again, and Trelawney swanned inside, shuffling a tarot deck.

“The dreadful gong roused me from my sleep,” she proclaimed. “Was my Third Eye proven correct once again? Did this blizzard indeed bring us doom?”

“Professor Smith was found dead in the Great Hall earlier this morning,” McGonagall said, sounding tired. There were shadows under her eyes that Harry had not seen yesterday.

Trelawney floundered, cards pouring to the floor. Despite her words, she clearly did not expect her predictions to come true.

Alicia got up to help gather the cards, but Trelawney raised a warning hand.

“Wait, my dear girl. We must be wise to read the message Fate is sending us.” She kneeled down, touching the cards that landed face-up on the tip of the pile. “The Devil; Lovers, reversed; the Emperor, reversed; Justice,” she mumbled. “All the Major Arcana. Great upheavals are ahead, great upheavals and great revelations. A malicious figure is lurking in the halls of the castle, hands red with blood. But in the end, the truth will out.”

“Very informative,” Snape said under his breath.

“Divination is an inexact subject, Severus. It will make sense when it’s time.”

"Thank you for your input, Sybill,” McGonagall said dryly as Trelawney gathered her deck and took the chair closest to the fireplace. “Right now, our duty is to the students.”

“I did my best to console the first-years, but it would be unwise to leave them to their own devices. And I haven’t even got time to see David yet,” said Babbling.

“Poor bairn. He tried to keep calm, but you could see how hard his Uncle’s death affected him.”

Alicia scoffed. "You just bet. He’s a nasty little thing, always mouthing off to Zach. Ever since Zach came to work here four years ago, there wasn’t a lesson where Shaw didn’t act out.”

“According to Smith himself, I presume?" Snape asked. “Because Mr. Shaw gave me a very different account of their relationship, one I’m inclined to believe.”

“He would. And naturally, you’d take the side of one of your snakes, Snape, no matter what.”

“If what happened to Judith Shaw is any indication—”

“It was an accident!"

“One that had no place in a classroom. Zacharias Smith was not fit to teach arse-licking to Kneazles, let alone Defence Against the Dark Arts to children."

Flitwick coughed into his beard.

“Severus!” McGonagall chided. “Show some respect. Mr. Shaw is not the only family of Professor Smith here.”

Oh? That was another piece of news to Harry. Although being pureblood in the Wizarding Britain meant Smith had to be somehow related to most other pureblood families. Ron acted all indignant when Sirius told him about his relation to Malfoy, but last year he finally confided that his Great-Aunt Muriel’s maiden name was Goyle.

“Despite us sharing the family name—before I took my husband’s, of course—Zacharias was actually my second cousin four times removed,” Professor Babbling shrugged. “Before he came to teach at Hogwarts, we hadn’t seen each other beyond the occasional birth, wedding or wake. That isn’t to say I did not appreciate him as a person,” she added.

Harry could swear there was a snort coming from Snape, but when he looked over, the man’s expression was bored.

“Of course, Bathsheda,” Flitwick said sympathetically.

“But what I meant to say is I didn’t truly know him, never having time to connect with dear Zacharias with my limited schedule at Hogwarts. Which is more time than David and Judith had with him, I might add.”

“It wasn’t Zach’s fault, either,” Alicia spoke up. She seemed to be the only one here to regard Smith with any fondness.

“Wasn’t it?” Professor Babbling asked evenly.

“Maybe you don’t know, being a distant relative and all that, but Zach told me all about it. The Shaws’s mother—Zach’s sister—broke his and his family’s heart.”

“Oh, did she?”

“She cut all ties with the family and got involved with some lowlife who dropped out of Hogwarts after his fourth year—”

“Did Zacharias tell you why exactly Richard Shaw had had to drop out of Hogwarts, girl?” Professor Babbling asked sharply, dropping her amicable expression for the first time.

“N-no, I never asked. It was clearly a sore subject.”

McGonagall’s lips became one thin line.

“The boy was bitten by a werewolf from the Greyback’s pack, if I remember correctly,” Flitwick said, shifting uncomfortably.

Professor Babbling nodded. “Very promising young man. But the case was highly publicised, so while the Prophet was running sympathetic headlines, the Board of Governors refused to let him back to continue his studies.”

Some unidentified emotion flashed across Alicia’s face. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. The parents disinherited Eliada over marrying a werewolf but have been telling everybody that it was she who cut ties with the family. When they are forced to acknowledge her existence at all, that is.”

Harry thought back to his boss. Healer Smith loved to talk about her son but never even mentioned having a daughter.

“Wizarding World is still backwards in many regards,” said Flitwick.

“This kind of attitude is nothing new for the Smith family. We’ve always been good at magicking a horn to an ass’s forehead and calling it a unicorn.”

“Isn’t it a little harsh, Bathsheda?" McGonagall asked. “The Smiths have always been a light family.”

“Naturally, if you mean not following You-Know-Who and presenting an image of law-abiding citizens. It’s all about the image, though. Avoiding scandals at all cost. Oh, how I miss Aunt Hepzibah, even though the old hag was laid to the ground half a century ago. Had three husbands, none of whom stuck, swore like a sailor, and lived her life to the fullest well into her hundreds, never caring what others might think.”

A picture of Hepzibah Smith from the memories Dumbledore had once shown him popped in Harry’s mind. Yes, she had been the type.

“She had a priceless cup belonging to Helga Hufflepuff herself, and everybody tried to outdo each other in brownnosing. Dearest Aunt kept the family on a short leash with threats of crossing them out of her will.”

“I thought the Hufflepuff’s cup was lost to the centuries,” said Flitwick.

“It was lost alright. In the end, she got poisoned, allegedly by her house-elf, and the cup was never to be seen again.”

“A house-elf?” Oliver asked, tearing himself away from his sausage and eggs for the first time.

“That was what the family claimed, at least, and they even threw the poor creature into Azkaban. Everybody pretended that the priceless heirloom had not gone missing, and that Aunt Hepzibah did not have a young lover barely out of Hogwarts. Some smooth-talking pretty face working in Knockturn’s pawn shop of all things, never to be seen there again after her death. Hopefully, the cogger got a taste of own poison in the end.”

Harry wondered if he should reveal the identity of the ‘cogger’ to her. She deserved to learn what happened to the Aunt she seemed to hold in high regard, but how would he explain his knowledge? He did not fancy getting into details about the Horcruxes or the fate of the Hufflepuff’s Cup. He had had enough problems with Gringotts for the breakout to have the Smiths complain about their damaged property. Professor Babbling might seem alright, but his boss still brought up the time when Harry had let a toddler throw up on her designer shoes three years after the incident. He could only imagine her reaction to destroying her family’s heirloom with a basilisk fang, piece of Voldemort's soul or not.

“And now, yet another death by poisoning, Bathsheda,” said Trelawney. “Are you sure it’s not a case of a generational curse?”

“A generational curse of misjudging people, perhaps.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aunt Hepzibah should have been careful whom she opened the doors of her house to, and Zacharias... He was always a bit inconsiderate, prone to offend and even hurt people with his thoughtless words and actions, if I’m being honest. And you know what they say about women scorned.” Professor Babbling said, busying herself with a teapot.

“What are you implying here, Professor Babbling?” Alicia straightened at Oliver’s side.

“I’m not implying anything, my dear. Should I?”

Harry shifted his gaze between them. Had Alicia been involved with Smith?

“I loved Zach and would never do anything to harm him, even after we broke up!” she said hotly.

Oliver frowned at her, his cup freezing mid-motion in his hand.

“You two did make quite a scene of it,” Snape drawled.

Alicia’s shoulder gave an angry little jerk. “Heat of the moment.”

“In fact, your hot defence of his virtues seems rather strange right now, since you pretended he didn’t exist for the last two months.”

“We were giving each other space.”

“Even when he would ask you to pass him salt during breakfast?”

“Oh, no. No. You don’t get to use our breakup to shift the blame from yourself, Snape.”

“We checked Zacharias’s wand,” Harry said quickly before the conversation went further downhill. “And it seems he ordered the wine from the kitchen. Although he had started drinking before coming into the Great Hall, so we don’t actually know if the poison wasn’t in something he already owned.” Snape was reasonably sure it was not the case, and Harry rather agreed, but mutual figerpointing was not going to help the situation.

“We need to consult the house-elves if it was Hogwarts wine,” McGonagall said.

Trelawney, who was raising her cup to her lips, quickly put it back. From his table, Harry noticed the suspiciously red shade of her tea, along with the lack of steam.

“How could he order it from the kitchen?” Oliver asked.

“Over holidays, teachers can just say the name of a dish or a drink they wish—within the menu, of course— and it will appear,” Babbling explained. “You must remember that from the Yule Ball?”

“I graduated the year before.”

“And of course, teachers can communicate their food preferences to the elves.”

Harry wondered what preferences Trelawney communicated for the content of the dainty china teapot she had on her table.

“Bloody useful,” Oliver said. The idea seemed to rouse him from the sulk he had been in since Alicia’s ‘love’ comment. “I’m always wracking my brain counting my macros. Quidditch players need their daily protein!”

“What brain?” Snape muttered.

“What time do the elves set the tables?” Harry asked McGonagall.

“Usually around five in the morning.”

“Are you going to play detective, Harry?” Alicia asked. “I remember you doing that a lot while when we were students.” She seemed to be much less favourable to him now that he did not back up her suspicions about Snape.

“Funny, Professor Snape asked the same question.”

The meeting only deteriorated from there into more distrustful sniping. Before leaving them to it, Harry remembered to take his own breakfast, haphazardly putting a ham and cheese sandwich together.

He rarely felt particularly hungry and often forgot to eat when he had a lot on his mind—legacy of his miserable childhood with the Dursleys’. His meals were easy to keep track while at Hogwarts, but a year on the run followed by a year of training had him look like an Inferius, and lime-green Healer robes did nothing to help the image. Hermione staged an intervention, going as far as enlisting others in his programme to keep track of his meals, and soon Harry learned to have three of those a day, no matter how hectic it was. Because otherwise, his year-mate would monitor _his_ daily protein for him, and did you know that a single flobberworm had a nutritional value of a whole chicken breast?


	3. Chapter 3

“Potter.”

Snape nodded Harry through the door of his office. It was exactly how Harry remembered it from their Occlumency lessons, betraying no trace of the festive season. Alicia had demanded that Harry keep an eye on Snape all the time, and McGonagall, after hearing about their plans to analyse Smith’s blood, insisted on his presence as well. She was much more polite and apologetic about it, reasoning that Harry witnessing the procedure would lend it more credibility with authorities. Still, Snape had been visibly hurt, giving her a mocking bow before leaving for the dungeons with Harry in tow.

Harry walked along the shelves rising from the floor and up to the arched ceiling. He now recognised most of the things that used to freak him out as a teenager: plimpy eyes, blinking at him from behind the glass, a hand with grey, peeling skin and webbed fingers that looked like it could have but not quite belonged to a Grindylow—it send him a rude gesture when he lightly tapped on the jar—and a brain in formaldehyde that Harry could see now to be a training dummy. He had one like that lying around Grimmauld. Snape’s brain—ha!—was clearly well-used, and Harry wondered what potions or spells he tried on it.

The veritable centrepiece was a bottle with a skull on the label and big black granules inside. Despite being relatively tame compared to the other things on the shelves, rumours about it permeated Hogwarts. It was said to be a poison Snape invented, one granule enough to kill a unicorn in a millisecond; tasteless, odourless, completely undetectable. This simple bottle filled students with dread more than slimy things in the jar ever could.

Looking at the dramatic skull now, Harry felt embarrassed and faintly nostalgic at how silly they had been to believe this, wondering if the current Hogwarts generation did as well. While there was no doubt Snape kept plenty of deadly poisons in his private stores, he wouldn’t display them here for any student to grab. Harry squinted at the granules, trying to work out what they actually were.

“What are those?” he asked.

“This is not what killed Smith, I assure you,” Snape, said and pushed a section of the bookshelf next to the desk, revealing an entrance to another room. Obeying the careless gesture of his hand, the lights went on, illuminating what had to be his personal lab.

“It doesn’t look like any poison I know.”

“Some say one granule can slay a hippogriff before I can say ‘ten points from Gryffindor.’”

“And by some, you mean terrified students?”

Snape gave him an uncommitted shrug with one shoulder for a reply. The corner of his mouth raised into a smirk.

“In my days, it was a unicorn,” said Harry.

“I’m sure it would be just as effective on a unicorn as it would on a hippogriff.”

“Who is its latest victim, according to the students?”

“The last I’ve heard, it was a baby dragon.”

“Now that’s too much. You have to stay believable.” Harry snorted. He would not have believed this even at eleven. Probably. “But really, what is it? Some rare ingredient?”

Snape studied him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he said, deadpan, “Bathing salt.”

Harry stared at him, gauging if he was serious.

“Wait a minute!” he said as he followed Snape into a spotless lab with two cauldrons already simmering on low fire. In contrast to the dim and gloomy office, it was brightly lit by the sconces on the walls. “When you say ‘ten points from Gryffindor,’ are they actually detracted?”

“When I say ‘ten points from Gryffindor?’”

“Yes. When you say—that.”

“Potter. What is the main prerequisite for a spell to work?”

“Intent.” Harry grinned, on sure ground again. Were he his eleven- or even seventeen-year-old self, he would be searching for a catch somewhere in the question. But years of Healer training and practice had given him confidence in his understanding of the basic principles of magic.

“Congratulations, Potter, at least something from seve—six years of your magical education managed to sink in.”

“So you’re saying you have to mean it when you take points off or give them, and they are not automatically deducted when teachers say the words themselves.” He felt he needed to clarify this for all the future generations of Gryffindors who would still be taught by this acerbic man.

“Precisely. I have to actively wish to take points from Gryffindor when I say ‘ten points from Gryffindor.’”

“You don’t have to repeat it,” Harry said uncomfortably, imagining the rubies in the hourglass running out at this very moment. He narrowed his eyes. “Have you wished for it just now?”

“When I—”

“Yes!”

“When have you ever known me not to wish it?”

Harry sputtered as Snape busied himself with vials and jars. He was raking his brain for a witty comeback when he realised they were exchanging banter instead of trading insults, and this thought stopped him short. The insults were sure to return any moment now, but Harry found he rather liked this Snape. When he had gone to visit Snape in the Hospital Wing in hopes of building bridges all those years ago, he had imagined them solemnly discussing weighty topics, with Snape being all stoic and grim. Maybe it was a good thing Snape had thrown that glass at him.

Surreptitiously studying the defined arch of Snape’s brow and rise of his cheekbones, Harry was suddenly struck by how—not handsome, no—magnetic his features were. Not from a cover of a magazine, but a classical statue. He hastily dropped his gaze lest Snape caught him staring. Hermione had been right. Harry must have been single for too long if he was starting to look at Snape this way.

Snape drew Smith’s blood from the vial with a dropper and added it to half a dozen glass rectangles, moving with the easy grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before. A pair of candles flew up to him without prompting, casting their light on the samples. He took some vials from the shelves behind him—much less impressive without any moving hands or big skulls on the labels but meticulously organised—and added their content to each rectangle. With five, nothing happened, but the blood on the last one darkened even more until it turned black. Snape frowned slightly and took out a small cauldron.

“Can I help you with anything?” Harry asked.

Snape thrust a cutting board and a jar of horned slugs at him, making Harry regret the offer.

The potion was done in fifteen minutes of increasingly strung silence and did not require even one slug from the pound Harry had chopped. Right after taking the cauldron off the fire, Snape added precisely one drop of blood and waved his wand over it, muttering some incantation. The potion bubbled and foamed, threatening to overflow, but Snape was quick to vanish it with a practised swipe of his hand just in time. He stared at it for a full minute, his face ashen.

"The main active component is white snakeroot,” he finally said through his teeth, his voice devoid of the levity from before.

“Just white snakeroot?”

“Yes, Potter. This is an ingredient you would have learned about if you have ever opened _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_.”

That did not sound right.

“But doesn’t it only appear in slow-acting poisons? If it was only white snakeroot, his hair and teeth would be falling out for a week before, and he would not be able to drink that wine, because his liver would have already failed.”

Snape looked at him in momentary disbelief before the scowl returned to his face. Apparently, the fact that Harry did know his potions these days refused to sink in. To be fair, Harry was not much better at actual brewing now than he was at Hogwarts, but he could quote _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ if woken up in the middle of the night. At least the information relevant to his job.

“This is a white snakeroot-based potion, and yes, some of them are capable of acting fast. You can relay that to your friend Spinnet. I’ve done my part here.” He sent the cauldron to the sink where it landed with an unnecessary clank and turned his back on Harry, returning the vials to the shelf.

Harry felt irritation bubble. “You don’t have to tell me what got you in a snit, but you better be sure the Aurors wouldn’t find out either.”

This was a shot in the dark, but he seemed to hit the bullseye with it, for Snape whirled to face him, eyes flashing with fury. “Of course. It took no time at all for you to show your true colours, Potter.”

“I still don’t believe you killed Smith and want to help you!”

“Lord over me just like your father, more likely!”

“I’m on your side here, you stubborn sod!”

For a moment, Harry was sure Snape was going to hex him. His hand dove to his pocket to furtively grasp his wand under the table. As his fingers wrapped around the handle, Harry realised they still were covered with slime from chopping the slugs.

“Fuck.”

Snape glanced at his arm. “Good luck getting the stains out.” He smirked with malicious amusement, but Harry’s display of stupidity seemed to relax him somewhat.

“So, are you going to tell me anything?” Harry asked cautiously, going to the sink to wash his hands.

“I don’t owe an explanation to an ungrateful ignoramus like you,” Snape said, but from his tone, Harry knew he had won.

There was another bout of tense silence that Harry didn’t break.

“There is one snakeroot-based poison that acts instantly. _Gertrude’s Kiss_.”

“Never heard of it.”

“At the last stage of the brewing, a potioneer uses a spell to imbue the poison with their own magic, which enhances its deadly nature and makes the death instantaneous.”

“I remember reading about this technique for our History of Poisons and Cures class,” Harry said, trying to remember the details. “It leaves a magical signature, right?”

“Magical signature. Yes. A simplistic way of putting it, but essentially correct. This is the reason why it mostly went out of fashion in the last century; nobody wants to leave their calling card on a dead body.” Snape let out a bitter little laugh. He was glaring down at the remaining blood in the vial, face obscured by his hair.

“So we can know who made this potion? But that’s—that’s great, right?”

“Simply stupendous.”

Something in Harry’s mind clicked. “You’re the one who made it, right?”

“You can spare me the speech on how you should’ve never trusted me after all.”

“I wasn’t going to make it.” Harry struggled for words. “So… Have you had any potions stolen recently?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I got rid of all stocks like that after the war. Unless—” Snape’s wand froze midway to the vial. In the next moment, he leapt to his feet and strode from the lab with a single-minded determination on his face, Harry on his heels.

In the office, Snape marched to his desk and completed a series of complicated movements with his wand, making another drawer appear between the two existing ones. He murmured something that sounded like ‘ _Lady Stardust_ ’, which was Harry found a rather odd password choice for a man like Snape. But it was the point, he supposed.

Snape jerked the drawer open, revealing some envelopes, photographs, muggle and wizarding, paper clippings, and a tiny round vial of viscous liquid, safely sealed with wax. He exhaled in relief.

In contrast, relief was the last thing on Harry’s mind. He found the fact that Snape was keeping this in his desk rather disturbing, especially after he noticed one of the envelopes bearing his name.

“Why have it here at all?” he asked cautiously.

Snape slid the drawer back into place with a rattle and made it disappear again. “Insurance during the war,” he explained curtly.

“Insurance?”

“I knew a lot, and my position was precarious. Should I have been exposed in an inopportune moment, this would ensure I wouldn’t betray any of the Order’s secrets,” Snape said matter-of-factly, sinking down into his leather chair. I seemed like he was explaining a homework assignment and not his plans for his death during the war. “This poison is one of the rare ones that don’t have an antidote. Technically, it could be developed, but one would simply have no time to administer it.”

Harry shivered. “Why have you kept it all this time?” he asked, taking the opposite chair.

“I haven’t opened it since the war,” Snape said with an irritated expression that told Harry to tread carefully. Harry suspected the answer to be a lie, but it was not his place to press the issue.

“So someone stole the poison from you during the war?” he asked instead.

“Nobody would have stolen something like that from me, Potter! I didn’t store it with the Gillyweed and Boomslang skin.”

“I didn’t steal either of those, you know.”

Snape raised a sceptical eyebrow at him.

“Really, I didn’t. But if nobody—”

“I only brewed those potions, Potter,” Snape said, sounding tired. “I wasn’t a part of their... end use.”

“So they are from the potions you made for Voldemort?”

“This is one option.”

“One option?” Harry looked at him in confusion. "You don’t mean Dumbledore asked you to brew poisons as well?” He meant it as a joke, but the grimness of Snape’s face made him waver. “What, really? Why?”

“For much the same reason I was keeping my own potion on me all the time. Certain Order members were sent on increasingly dangerous missions, especially towards the end of the war.”

“Remus?” Harry found himself asking.

“The wolf, among others.” Snape nodded. “This potion is one of the few equally effective on his kind.”

“But if anyone were to use it, wouldn’t you be to blame?”

Snape’s face was now an expressionless mask. “We all had to bear our risks at that time.”

“It’s wasn’t fair from the Headmaster to ask that of you.”

“It’s a moot point now.” He watched Harry oddly, as if he had expected a different reaction to that piece of information. But Harry was well aware of Dumbledore’s ruthless and utilitarian side, even if he did not like to think about it often.

“Well, it’s really not, if the potion has resurfaced now. Or do you think it’s from the ones you brew for Voldemort?”

“Could be either,” Snape said reluctantly. “Odds are it’s the one intended for the Order, because of those of I brewed for the Dark Lord, only one or two are unaccounted for.”

“The others were... used?” Harry asked. “And the Aurors didn’t learn they were yours?”

Now Snape appeared even more reluctant. Finally, he said, “They weren’t used on the kind of people whose death the Aurors would investigate.”

“Oh.”

“Except for one in the first war, but in that case, the Aurors were not going to be overly particular about the way the most notorious creature trafficker and Greyback’s direct competitor died. In fact, they claimed it was their achievement.”

“But they know that was your potion?”

“Yes.”

“So they are aware of the... possibility.”

“Indeed. If you’re quite finished rubbing it in my face—”

“I’m not trying to rub it in your face. I’m just trying to understand the situation. Are there a lot of Voldemort’s potions going around?”

“I personally retrieved the rest of the stock from the Malfoy manor after the war. At least, I thought it was the rest of it.”

“Maybe the Malfoys are involved!” Harry exclaimed, falling into the old patterns easily. “Malfoy Senior is out, after all!” Lucius Malfoy had been punished with seven years in Azkaban, the last three of which were substituted with home arrest for ‘good behaviour,’ whatever that meant in the context of solitary confinement in the language of bribe-greedy officials.

“I assure you, Lucius is the last person to be involved in something like this right now, even if he still had the poison. Which he doesn’t.”

“Who had the poison in the Order, other than Remus?”

Snape twisted his lips into a cynical scowl. “Hestia Jones; she vanished the vial in my presence that first summer. Shacklebolt; he claimed he did as well.”

Something in his voice tipped Harry off. “You don’t believe that he did?”

“Politicians know the power of leverage.”

“Kingsley is not that kind of a person.”

“Perhaps,” Snape allowed non-committally.

“So you don’t know what happened with the rest—how many?”

“Three. And no, I don’t.” Snape sat back against the high leather back of the chair, steepling his fingers. He looked bone-weary, which was probably the reason he had not started snarling at Harry up until now.

“Dumbledore preferred to keep his cards close to his chest.”

“You used to be his biggest proponent.”

“I’m not a child anymore. I’m not blind to his faults.”

“You’ve been one surprise on another so far, Potter.” Snape regarded him down his prominent nose before taking a potion bottle from his desk—off-colour Pepper-Up, clearly a student’s work—and looking at it thoughtfully.

“If you want to fling it at me right now, I would understand.”

“I might take you up on that later.”

“That’s a one-time offer.” Harry gave him a hesitant smile. Seeing Snape so defeated made something in his chest pang. Having Snape rage and snap would be at least familiar and thus, manageable.

Snape was still fiddling with the bottle in his potions-stained fingers. “I find it strange that this particular poison was in the wine. It would lose some of its potency upon prolonged contact with alcohol,” he said. “Unless, of course—”

He stood up abruptly, and Harry followed suit.

* * *

Snape’s steps were springing with the newfound sense of purpose as they went through the dungeons. Cold air left Harry’s lips in puffs, and he realised he was freezing despite a thick sweater—Molly’s present from several Christmases ago—with a double-layer wool robe over it. Snape’s office seemed to be much warmer; or maybe Harry simply had not noticed the chill among all the revelations.

The doors of the Great Halls were closed, and Professor Binns was floating back and forth in front of them, muttering under his breath. He straightened to his unimpressive height as Harry and Snape approached.

“Halt!” Binns said, puffing his translucent cheeks. “No one is coming in. Headmistress’s order.”

“We need to inspect the crime scene,” Snape said in an authoritative voice.

“But wait, aren’t you the Headmaster?”

“Let us through, Cuthbert.”

“Everything is so confusing these days,” the ghost complained, moving aside.

The table looked exactly as it did before: the dark red stain blooming on the white cloth among the cutlery, plates and goblets. Snape went right to the overturned one.

“Should you touch it?” Harry asked dubiously. “Won’t you leave, like, incriminating fingerprints?”

“Reading muggle crime novels in your spare time? Since you didn’t follow your childhood dream career, I’ll inform you that wizarding law enforcement do not rely on such crude methods.”

“I was simply concerned. How stupid of me.”

“Indeed. Beside, whyever would I touch it?” Snape said derisively, raising his wand. Mid-motion, his hand stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, not able to discern his expression behind the curtain of hair.

“Nothing.” Snape’s tone was so even it had to be faked. Cutting off further questions that bubbled on Harry’s tongue, he started murmuring a long incantation in Latin. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling, somewhat lulled the nervous foreboding roiling inside Harry.

The edge of the goblet glowed with a pale blue light. Snape swore under his breath but didn’t look surprised.

Harry looked at him questioningly, even though he already suspected the answer.

“The poison was not in the wine,” said Snape. “It was applied to the goblet itself.”

“What’s the practical difference?”

“Use your brain, Potter. This means the culprit had to do it here, in the Great Hall, after the house-elves had already set the table.”

There was a wail from across the Hall. “The murderer is among us!” Trelawney was walking between the long tables to them, Flitwick in tow.

Harry winced. They should have kept the door shut.


	4. Chapter 4

“We saw the open door and came down to investigate,” Trelawney proclaimed as the four of them left the Great Hall. “Strange, a brief consultation with my crystal ball just half of an hour earlier revealed a shadowed figure returning to the place where the blood was spilled.” She stared at Snape over the magnifying lenses of her glasses.

Snape looked back with undisguised loathing. “As always your craft fails you, Sybill, as does your memory. Smith was poisoned, not stabbed.”

Trelawney huffed. “I was speaking figuratively, but you’re always quick to misinterpret my words for the sake of insults, Severus.”

“My dear friends, I believe we should put aside old animosities in times like this,” Flitwick interjected as Snape opened his mouth for another scathing retort.

“If you want my opinion, I taught about the treacherous nature of Goblins and their progeny long enough to recognise the signs of it,” Binns said in his reedy voice.

“Don’t you worry, Cuthbert.” Flitwick smiled sweetly. “I’m no danger to your life.”

Binns jutted his chin and turned to float off.

“Resume your post, Cuthbert,” Snape said. “And this time, don’t let anyone in.”

“I’m a member of the staff myself and deserve some respect,” the ghost complained before returning to the doors. “I have more pressing things to do than playing guard the whole day.”

‘The staff meetings must be fun,” Harry muttered as Snape went to notify the Headmistress of his findings, and Trelawney headed to her tower, both pointedly looking in different directions as they took the same staircase up.

Flitwick snickered. “Oh, they are. Those two do enjoy their dramatics.” His smile dimmed. “Everyone is on edge with these horrible events, so their animosity may seem greater than it is.”

Harry thought Flitwick was overly optimistic about their relationship, but then again, he was not aware of Trelawney’s prophecy and the role it played in Snape’s life. And if Harry knew anything about Snape, it was that the man held on to his grudges.

A mangy reddish-brown cat darted past their feet and towards the door opposite the Great Hall, which Harry remembered to be Filch’s office. Before the feline crashed its head into the wood, a cat flap materialised, smoothly letting it in.

“Neat,” Harry said. “A successor to Mrs. Norris?”

“Yes.” Flitwick hid a small amused smile. “Minerva holds no more love for this one that she did the previous.”

“Wait a minute.” A thought came to Harry. “Does Filch live here as well?”

“Yes, his quarters are connected to his office.” Flitwick looked at him quizzically.

“Maybe he had seen the poisoner?” Harry felt stupid not thinking about it earlier, seeing how many times he would bolt off with Ron and Hermione from Filch doing his midnight rounds.

“Old age has finally caught up on Argus, and our dedicated caretaker doesn’t leave his room as much anymore. But maybe he did hear something. He always complains about his troubles with sleep.”

“It’s worth checking out.”

“You do that, my boy. I’ll be in the staffroom if you need me.”

“You think he’ll talk to me?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Moving to knock on the door, Harry was pretty sure he heard heavy steps walking away from it on the other side. Harry waited for a couple of moments before raising his hand to the dark wood. The plaque saying ‘Caretaker’s Office’ had a crude word written over it, only half-scrubbed off. In his days, Filch would make whoever responsible—or any unlucky student who happened to be in the vicinity when Filch saw it—clean and polish the plaque until it shined like a Quidditch Cup, but now it was darkened with dirt around the edges.

The footsteps came back, louder this time. The door opened a sliver, and Filch’s head peeked out. His grey hair, as always thin and unkempt, had receded even more, leaving a bald spot. With its discoloured patches and surrounding greasy hair, it also looked to be in dire need of a wash and polish.

“Can I talk to you, Mr. Filch?” Harry asked.

Rheumy eyes blinked at him in distrust, but the door opened wider.

“Come in, then. Not many people come to talk with old Filch these days.”

Leaving Harry to follow and close the door behind him, Filch limped to the depth of his office, leaning heavily on his cane. The space was cluttered with cleaning supplies and confiscated items. It was better stocked on Fanged Frisbees than the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes itself, and the Skiving Snackboxes, stacked in a careless tower that needed only a sneeze to topple on their heads, came in a close second.

There was only one window under the ceiling. Long and narrow, it did not provide much light. Instead, an oil lamp sat precariously on the pile of parchments on the desk.

He picked up the lamp and motioned Harry to another room. "There’s a fireplace in the sitting room. Dratted drafts and cold, and my legs aren’t what they used to be."

The sitting room was similarly modest and had the same window as the office. Recalling the outside layout of the circular building adjacent to the castle, Harry suspected that the bedroom was not much better. He was beginning to understand why Filch had preferred to prowl the halls instead of staying inside his quarters. The air was musty and stale. The smell of cats and old age permeated the room, bringing back childhood memories of Mrs. Figg’s house.

With a heavy grunt, Filch lowered himself into an armchair with a moth-eaten tartan plaid thrown over it, and Harry sat in an equally old, but clearly much less used sofa. The cat jumped on Filch’s lap, its yellow eyes regarding Harry distrustfully.

A black kettle hung on a hook in the fireplace—Harry remembered Hagrid having one like that, only three times as big.

“A cuppa would be nice now,” Filch looked at the kettle meaningfully.

“Let me make it for you.”

There were oversteeped leaves in a mismatched teapot and a dirty cup on a mantelpiece. Harry hit it with a Cleaning Charm.

Filch creased his bushy eyebrows at the casual display of magic where he would have to use a dripping sink in the corner but made no comment of it. “The other cups are in the cupboard over there,” he said instead.

Harry found two cups covered with a layer of dust and took one that wasn’t chipped. He made his best attempt at casting a wandless and non-verbal Scourgify on it as well.

“I don’t often have guests here. It’s just two of us, right, Dolores?” Filched cooed at the cat, petting her.

Harry, who was fumbling with a poker to get the kettle out of the fireplace, almost dropped it at the name. Dolores, who had just settled on Filch’s lap, raised her head again, eyes glowing in the semi-darkness.

“Good woman, Madam Umbridge was. Whatever people said about her afterwards, she brought order and stability to Hogwarts.”

Harry did not trust himself with words. Instead, he picked a sugar bowl with clumped-up walls. “Sugar?”

“Two spoonfuls. Shame she didn’t see eye to eye with old Headmaster. I’m sure whatever bad blood was between them, it was a misunderstanding.”

“You think so?”

“I should say so. Dumbledore was a great man, with a heart of gold. Gave this job to me, eh?”

“He gave all people a chance.” There was a time Harry had believed that unreservedly.

“Too right. He did not always keep a firm enough hand on the miscreants—stretched too thin with all his important duties. But he always found time to send me a small Christmas tree with the start of the holidays.” Filch looked accusingly at the tree-less corner. “New Headmistress doesn’t have time for old Filch.”

“I’m sure she just doesn’t know about your tradition with the Headmaster.” Harry gave him a steamy cup, noticing how Filch’s hands shook slightly when he took it. He wondered how old Filch actually was. Way too old to be mopping the floors of the enormous castle.

“My dear late Mrs. Norris never liked her, and Dolores doesn’t either,” Filch said as if it sealed the deal. “Always too busy to listen to the lowly caretaker. All of them are. Only Professor Snape ever asks me how I am anymore. Sent me a jar of the joint ointment the other day.”

As a child, Harry used to hate Filch, an annoying obstacle on his late night misadventures. Looking at him with adult eyes, he saw a desperately lonely, confused old man.

“But you didn’t just come to talk about my ails, did you, Mr. Potter?” Filch slurped his tea.

Harry took a sip as well. “Actually, I wanted to ask you if you heard anyone this morning, from around five to six o’clock?”

“Oh yes, and what a busy time that was. I wanted to have another hour of sleep after a bad night, but was not to be.”

“Really? Can you tell me what exactly you heard?”

Filch puffed his chest self-importantly. “First, as I was turning in my bed, somebody walked into the Great Hall, waking me completely.”

“Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”

“I wasn’t with my ear to the door,” Filch said with a huff. “It was hard to tell. But the steps were on a lighter side, so perhaps a woman.”

Harry got his Healer notebook and made a note in it with an ever-sharp pencil, the bane of his quill traditionalist boss.

Filch looked appeased, reaching to the small table nearby to get a tin of ginger nuts and dunking one into his tea. “Then, after a while, there was another set of steps. Maybe those were male, but again, I’m not sure. There was a conversation—”

“A conversation?”

“I couldn’t hear the words, but it sure was heated. One voice was definitely female, before you ask. And they left together.”

Harry’s mind whirled. So after the culprit had come into the Great Hall, another person had joined them. Were they in on it?

“After that,” Filch continued, “Professor Smith came.”

“How do you know it was him this time?”

A familiar, nasty expression appeared on Filch’s wrinkled face. “He kicked poor Dolores, as he was wont to do. A piece of work that boy was. Professor, ha.”

Harry nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

“He also ran into the suit of armour and created a horrible racket. Then swore for two minutes straight and, I believe, kicked it as well. Probably drunk as a fiddler’s bi—very drunk.”

“Yes, we’ve suspected he’d been drinking before going down.” Harry did not elaborate whom he had meant by ‘we’, but Filch did not seem to need it.

“He rambled in the Great Hall for a while, but I didn’t hear anyone answer him. Then, the strangest thing happened.” Filch paused.

“Yes?”

“A dozen minutes after he had finally shut up, there was a sound of someone rattling the front door, but no steps leading to or from it. Maybe it was just the wind. But I don’t think so.”

If one had been up to no good, Harry thought, the smart thing would be to silence their steps. “Did it open?”

“No.” Filch shook his head. “Hogwarts has been my home almost all my life, and let me tell you, Mr. Potter. It’s not just a building. The castle knows when to open its doors, and when to keep them shut.”

“Hogwarts is a special place,” Harry agreed. “Did anybody come after that?”

“Somebody came and went around half-past six, and in twenty minutes, all of you appeared, starting with that Quidditch player trying the door as well. Why is he strutting around when he isn’t even on the staff, I beg to ask?”

This must have been David going from the dungeons to the Hospital Wing. Had he come straight up as he said he had, or had he peeked into the Great Hall, seen Smith and had told nobody? Harry made a note to talk to the boy later.

“You remember all the details remarkably well, Mr. Filch,” he said.

With a grunt, Filch put his cup on the table and produced his own, frayed and grease-smeared notebook from his pocket. He wetted his fingers with saliva and found the right page. “Ha! Memory is slippery, so I log every detail that might be important for catching those miscreants. Every suspicious sound goes here. How do you think I was able to ever catch those ginger demon spawn twins, friends of yours?” He was bursting with pride.

Harry smiled at the mention of the Weasleys. He wondered if they had known about this little black book and ever stole it. He would need to ask George if the occasion arose; in the last few years, he could reminisce about their school adventures and mention Fred again without having a breakdown.

“Thank you for your help,” Harry said, putting his own cup away.

“Good day, Mr. Potter. I remember you to be a delinquent, but I must say you seem to have outgrown your troubled youth.”

With that shining endorsement, Harry finally left Filch’s quarters. Unfiltered light of day, however bleak with the storm raging outside, had never seemed so welcoming. He leaned onto the window next to the front door and put his palm to the double pane painted over with esoteric symbols by the frost outside. Before talking to Filch, he had planned to go down and question the house-elves on the off-chance Snape’s theory was wrong and the poison came from the kitchen. But it seemed the man was once again right, and the murderer—or was it murderers?—came to the Great Hall itself.

Who could it have been? Smith did not seem to be that well-liked, other than by Alicia, who, according to Professor Babbling, had her own motive. If Alicia was involved, was Oliver the second person? Harry shook his head. He didn’t want to think the worst of his childhood friends. Both of them had helped Muggleborns in the year of Voldemort’s reign and come to the DA’s call to fight alongside him in the Battle of Hogwarts. Unlike Zacharias Smith, who had run away at the first opportunity, Harry’s memory helpfully suggested.

As if in answer to Harry’s thoughts, Oliver Wood himself stomped downstairs, looking like he had been dragged through a chimney. His face was smudged with dirt that went down his light-grey knitted jumper, and his hair was in disarray. Oliver tried the front door once again, but this time it did not even open a smidgen.

“Fuck!” he hit the door, but then immediately withdrew his hand, nursing it. His knuckles and his palm were scratched. “Fuck.”

“What happened to you?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Tried to clear one of the blocked secret passages. One behind the one-eyed witch statue, you know it?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. He had a lot of fond memories of that passage.

“Fred and George found it in their first year, who knows how. A trusty source of firewhiskey for the dorm parties, well, you know how it was.”

Harry nodded, although he actually did not. Seamus used to smuggle booze into the school from who knew where, and they had gotten disgustingly drunk once in their sixth year after their first Quidditch match. Then being poisoned with Slughorn’s mead had turned Ron off any alcohol for good until the end of the year, and Hermione would confiscate any drink stronger than butterbeer on sight. After that, there was the year on the run when they had kept themselves warm with cooking sherry that the previous owner of the tent had stocked up, but those gloomy evenings had little in common with any of the wild parties the upperclassmen would throw when Harry himself had been in his first years at Hogwarts.

“Did you clear it by hand?” he asked instead.

“There’s an anti-spell barrier, but they did not count on good old manual labour!” Oliver crowed.

“So… any progress?”

His cheerful expression dimmed. “At this rate, I’ll be done by Valentine’s.”

“I’m sure everybody knows about the storm by now and won’t hold it against you.”

“You don’t understand, Harry. Professional Quidditch is not the Hogwarts Cup. You need to consistently prove your dedication and commitment to the team. Con-sis-ten-tly. And the last practice of the year? Quoting our coach, you get there even if You-Know-Who is out of his grave again, chasing you with a Beater’s bat.”

Harry stifled a wince at the casual use of Voldemort as a scare for lateness. “I remember all your motivational speeches when you were the Gryffindor Captain,” he said. There was, however, such a thing as taking dedication too far. Or did Oliver have another reason for wanting to leave as soon as possible? No. Harry refused to succumb to paranoia.

“Those were the days. First steps of the big journey.”

“Twelve steps, to be more precise,” he said with a grin. Oliver had tried to introduce his twelve-step program at his last year at Hogwarts, complete with an animated presentation, charts and five a.m. practices in the mud and rain.

“And they paid off, didn’t they? We only lost against the Puffs.”

Harry shivered, remembering the Dementors and Cedric playing against him.

“And if Smith had beaten Diggory to the Seeker position, we’d have won that match even with you fainting.”

“Smith tried for the position?” Harry had not kept up with the other team’s tryouts, but he knew for a fact that Oliver never missed a chance to spy on their competition.

“Both in his second and third year. Probably continued later on, too. Useless on a broom. They say to never speak ill of the dead, but I can’t bring myself to say anything good about his flying.”

“Say, Oliver, did you come here earlier in the morning before we found Smith?”

Oliver’s face closed off. “I first came down a couple of minutes before you appeared.”

“That’s what I thought. But maybe you’ve seen anybody when you—”

“No, nobody on my way from the Gryffindor Tower. I even thought that it was creepy to see the castle so empty.”

“Gryffindor Tower? Oh, Alicia is the Head of the House now as well?”

“Yeah. So weird that it isn’t McGonagall anymore.” Oliver looked at his watch. “Well, it was great chatting to you, Harry, but I need to go. Those rocks won’t roll themselves!”

“Good luck with that.”

Oliver turned to go just as Snape appeared at the stairs. The two men shared a look of mutual suspicion.

“Is there a chance he’ll be able to clear that secret passage by the stairs to the Defence classroom?” Harry asked quietly as Snape came down.

“Not the slightest,” Snape said with a snort. “The Sysyphus Charm,” he explained. “The rocks are spelled to refill when the passage is cleared halfway. Which I sincerely doubt this Quaffle-head will manage.”

“Should we tell him?” Harry asked dubiously.

“Don’t you dare, Potter.”

“You might have a point.” The passage would keep Oliver occupied lest he actually finds a way out and freezes to death under the storm.

“Why did you ask him if he was down here before? Did you think he would tell you if he had a detour to the Great Hall for an early protein-filled breakfast and a murder?”

Harry chuckled despite himself. As a student, he never noticed that Snape had a sense of humour, morbid as it was. “No, it’s not that. There were apparently more people in the morning than Smith and whoever poisoned him.”

“Oh?”

“I talked to Filch—” He cut himself off. Did he want to share this with Snape?

Snape’s face lost all traces of his previous amused expression. “Of course. I didn’t expect you to tell me anything.”

Harry had a decision to make. It occurred to him that Snape shared something extremely personal with him earlier this day.

“I just didn’t want to talk about it here,” he said. “Let’s go to the Hospital Wing, if it’s all the same to you. It’s time for me to check on Judith. We can discuss it there.”

“Of course.”

“And while we are at it, what was it about the goblet?” Harry asked, remembering Snape’s expression from before.

“The goblet?”

“Yes. You definitely noticed something there.”

“We established that the poison was on the edge. Do keep up, Potter.”

Harry stopped. “No. There was something else, before. Don’t take me for an idiot, Snape.”

Snape gave him a brief, assessing look over his shoulder. “Where was Smith sitting when you found him?” he asked without slowing his steps.

Harry sped up to match his step again. “The same place he was yesterday.”

“And the goblet? Did you notice anything different about it?”

“I didn’t pay attention to his goblet yesterday,”—in fact, he had tried his best to ignore Smith as much as possible—“But aren’t they all the same? Gilded silver, Hogwarts crest?”

“Unlike the staff goblets, the one that poisoned Smith was goblin-crafted. They might be of similar design, but saying they are the same is like saying that first-year’s scales are the same as the customised self-calibrating set to measure stardust.”

“So he wasn’t supposed to have it?”

“No, he wasn’t. The set is reserved for the Headmistress and important guests.”

“So the poison was for Professor McGonagall? And Smith took her goblet?” This was something Harry could see Smith do.

“No, Minerva’s goblet was untouched.”

“But where did he get it, then? It’s not like Hogwarts could expect any important guests in the morning while cut off with this snowstorm.”

Now it was Snape’s turn to stop and give him a look reminiscent of his student days when Harry would make a particularly poor attempt at a potion.

“What?”

“Are you really this dense?”

Harry looked at him in confusion before understanding dawned. “Oh. You mean he took mine.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Hospital Wing was empty except for Judith Shaw, still floating unconscious over her bed. For a boy insisting to spend all his day here the day before, her brother was nowhere to be seen, and Harry had to wonder why.

He checked on Judith’s progress, aware of Snape’s eyes following his every movement. Being scrutinised while working was something he had long got used to in the hospital, but the dark stare on him made his pulse speed up. Finished, he straddled the wooden visitor chair, leaving Snape with the one he had transfigured into a cushy armchair the night before.

Snape, ungrateful sod, regarded the striped velvet upholstery as if it was a timed dungbomb. "Did you bring it all the way for a prank?"

“What?” Harry frowned. “Oh, you must recognise the original from Grimmauld Place. Ron found it when we were clearing the attic and decided to sit down and rest.”

“How you two survived until now with that attitude is a complete mystery to me.”

“Hermione said the same thing.”

“You are fortunate this particular piece of furniture is not designed with maiming in mind, unlike many artefacts in that house of yours.”

“You should’ve seen Ron’s face when the tentacles appeared and started doing their thing.” Harry snickered. “He said that chair cured his arachnophobia only to replace it with something far more horrific.”

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched, and Harry followed the movement with his eyes, wondering about the circumstances under which he had learned about the chair. The scenes Harry’s mind conjured were rather intriguing, although Snape would probably hex him hard should he look into his mind right now.

Scrubbing his mind clean just in case, he continued, “So I would transfigure a random chair to look like it now and then, when Ron least expected it. And before you ask, it was a deserved payback.”

“I’m sure.”

“After so much practice, any chair I transfigure turns out like that if I’m not actively concentrating on something else. But it’s actually pretty comfy. And safe to sit on, no tentacles.”

Snape glared at the offending chair before sitting on it. Harry was probably imagining things, but he seemed almost disappointed when it did absolutely nothing.

“You seem remarkably unaffected but the earlier revelation,” Snape said.

Harry sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He was just trying not to think about it for a little bit longer, ignoring the leaden feeling that had settled in his stomach when Snape had told him about the goblets. “These things just keep happening to me.” The murder attempts had stopped being remotely surprising around his fourth year, really. “It’s a wonder I haven’t thought about it myself. I guess I got too used to having a peaceful life. It’s been seven years since the last murder attempt, if you don’t count little Timmy setting my robe on fire with accidental magic when I didn’t give him a Chocolate Frog last week.”

“It’s not a matter to take lightly,” Snape said, annoyed. An odd emotion flickered across his face, which Harry was surprised to recognise as concern. He had been perfectly willing to throw quips earlier himself, and Harry felt warmth in his chest at the thought that his life being in danger changed things for Snape.

He was not unaware of his own mortality, regardless of what Hermione might have accused him on occasion, but even she had to agree back during their Horcrux hunt that laughing it off was better than living in a state of constant panic. It had not been a viable option then, and it was not now. Even if it was not the healthiest approach.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Harry. “I’m not that easy to kill.”

“I’m not worried in the slightest. I just don’t want many years of efforts to keep you alive go to waste.”

Harry grinned. “Right.”

“Especially with this appalling attitude of yours. Reckless as always!”

Harry’s smile died on his lips as his eyes landed on the dark screen hiding the body of Zacharias Smith. “And now another person is dead because of me.”

“You are not responsible for Smith’s death.”

“I know that. But if I really was the true target—”

"Are you still not done playing the martyr? Whoever decided to put that poison on the goblet shoulders all the blame. And we need to find out exactly who it was with all possible despatch.”

“We?” Harry asked, smiling despite himself at the pronoun.

“You, of course, are welcome to sit back and not get into trouble for once, but I realise that this is an unreasonable expectation.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

Snape seemed to choose his words carefully. “I’ve never seen Wood before in the castle. His insistence on leaving it by any means doesn’t inspire much confidence either.”

“Wouldn’t acting like that be too conspicuous if he actually had anything to do with the murder?”

“You are giving too much credit to that Quidditch-obsessed nitwit."

“Oliver isn’t stupid, just… single-minded. And anyway, why would he want me dead?”

“I admit the theory would sound more credible if Smith were the target. Still, you never know. Didn’t the Prophet report you stealing his fiancé five years ago?”

“Keeping tabs on me?” Harry asked with a wry smile.

“Please. If I knew of a way to avoid the gossip in the staffroom, believe me, I would. So far, even murder hasn’t stopped it.”

“Well, the papers got it wrong, as always. I was dating her brother at the time.”

Snape looked at him oddly.

“What?” Harry asked. The idea that Snape might be homophobic left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. “Did the staffroom miss all the articles about my sexuality?” There had been a deluge of them after he broke off the engagement with Ginny. The Prophet had been dragging her name through the dirt, so Harry had had to come out to the general public much earlier than he had been ready for. Despite that, the papers insisted to pair him with every woman in sight, from Hermione to Adrian’s sister.

“No, it didn’t. Sinistra would insist on reading every single one of them aloud, and no detail was missed, no matter how small. Believe me, those were excruciating three months to live through.”

“I wouldn’t know. I never read anything they write about me anymore; those articles are only good for kindling.” Hermione’s summaries and Ron’s ribbing were quite enough. “So what’s the matter, then?”

“I’m simply surprised you would date a man like Pucey.”

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with Adrian.” He was the reason that relationship didn’t work out, with his twenty four hour shifts and war flashbacks. Adrian accused Harry of not letting him in. It had been unfair to Adrian, but how could he possibly understand what Harry had been through?

“As a student, you would find him being a Slytherin reason enough.”

“I’m not my fifteen-year-old self. Although if I’d so much as talked to one decent Slytherin as a student, I’d probably have changed my mind about your house earlier. Erm, no offence. But you have to agree, we didn’t have the best relationship then.”

“Then?” Snape’s thin lips twisted.

“Well, we’re doing better now, aren’t we?” Harry asked, suddenly awkward.

“Seems to be so.” Snape looked at him with an unidentifiable expression that made his palms sweat as if he was a student again, although Harry was sure the reason was quite different now.

A quiet, vaguely-familiar female voice from Poppy’s office broke the spell. It asked something, only to be answered by another, male one.

Harry scrambled to his feet, drawing his wand without conscious thought. Had somebody got into the office while he had been away? To his knowledge, it should have been empty.

And empty it was. The voices came from the frames on the walls: a large painting with bookshelves behind Poppy’s desk that, in Harry’s memory, always lacked an inhabitant, and a darkened portrait of a wizard surrounded by skulls of different size and shape. His starched white collar looked like a plate serving his head, and the fact that he was invariably asleep every time Harry laid his eyes on him did not help that impression.

“Healer Potter.” Dilys Dervent, whose portraits he remembered from the Headmaster’s office and at the reception at St. Mungo’s, gave him a motherly smile and turned to leave the gilded frame.

Harry watched her with, absentmindedly imagining the deluge of people the hospital dealt with each holiday and cowardly wishing the snowstorm would last until after Christmas and spare him the worst shift, when sudden thought came to him. “Madam Dervent?” he called.

“Yes?” She stopped and looked at him questioningly.

“Can you travel to your portrait at the hospital?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I don’t fancy trying it out with the magical storm around the castle and be stuck in-between.”

“In-between?”

She made a vague gesture, obviously unwilling to elaborate. The portraits were usually eager to chat and gossip about each other, but some secrets were closely guarded from the living. Harry knew better than to ask them about the limits of the space inside the painting, their animation and whether Walburga Black had been this mad of a harridan when alive.

"Did he wake up?" Snape asked from Harry’s side, startling him. Harry had not heard him come over at all. No wonder the man was so good at prowling the corridors in search of rulebreakers.

Dilys Dervent shook her impressive 18th-century wig. “Yes, not that it did much good. Told us death made bigger holes in his memory than in his brother’s doughnuts. And those, I quote, are more hole than a doughnut.”

Snape scoffed. “Somehow, I’m not surprised at this non-answer.”

With a nod, she stepped out of the frame.

There was a snore from the opposite wall. The ancient wizard had fallen asleep again, cradling a bird-like skull.

“What was she talking about?” Harry asked.

Snape considered Harry for a moment before answering. “I asked Minerva if Albus had given her a vial of _Gertrude’s Kiss_.”

“Did he?”

“No. She was rather appalled at the whole idea. Much more than you were, I must say.”

Harry shrugged. His glasses had long ago lost that rose tint where the ex-Headmaster was concerned. "So you asked Dumbledore’s portrait?"

“He was sleeping—or feigning sleep. Minerva’s ire is not a thing to trifle with. I’d very much like to know how she managed to wake him up. I never succeeded during my time in that office unless he himself wished to talk.” A frown marred Snape’s brow. The year when he was the Headmaster was at the bottom of the list of things he wanted to talk about, Harry supposed.

“Not that it made much difference,” he said.

“No, it didn’t.”

“But wait, why did Dervent even come here at all?”

“Minerva must be worried about you.”

“Worried about… Did you tell her about the goblet as well?”

“Of course. She had to be informed of the gravity of the situation.”

“You had no right!” Harry fumed. “And she already knows the gravity of the situation; Smith is dead.”

“I had every right. This is the kind of information the Headmistress should be aware of,” Snape said, his jaw set. 

“So McGonagall is going to use her portrait spy network to track my every move now?”

“To make sure I haven’t stabbed you in the back yet.” McGonagall’s suspicion, whether real or only in Snape’s mind, must have hurt him deeply.

“Does she really think you had anything to do with this?”

“She says she does not.”

Harry was saved from saying some meaningless platitude Snape would not in any way appreciate by a sudden idea. “Portraits!”

“What?” Snape looked at him in confusion.

“They could have seen the murderer going to the Great Hall! Or murderers, because based on what Filch heard, it’s just as likely that there are two of them.” He recounted what the caretaker had heard before dawn.

Snape listened to him without interruption, with an intent expression reserved for Dumbledore or McGonagall back in the day. Harry realised it was the gravity of information that warranted such attention rather than his own person, but it pleased him to be on receiving end of it all the same.

“It’s a possibility,” Snape said finally, having doubtlessly committed every tiny detail to his memory. “Of course, any halfway competent criminal would use the Disillusionment Charm or otherwise disguise themselves.”

“Well, not every criminal is half-way competent. Although there is a problem.” Harry’s eagerness dimmed a bit. “The portraits had a bridge night yesterday.”

“Fascinating.”

“Do you think it means the murderers knew about it?”

“I think avoiding portraits is easier than building a murder attempt around them. Especially if you were the real target.”

“We still don’t know that for sure,” Harry said with more confidence than he felt. “Smith may also have some mortal enemies. I don’t want to be as arrogant as you always say I am and claim them all for myself.”

“Let’s test your theory, Miss Marple,” Snape said, striding to the exit.

“Hey! Why do I have to be an old lady?”

They stood side by side, waiting for the moving staircase to bring them to the third floor, where the inhabitants of the frames were flocking. A shiver of excitement from chasing a mystery in these halls ran through him. He turned to Snape to shoot him an impulsive grin, only to find the other man looking at him with an unfamiliar, thoughtful expression. Caught staring, Snape scowled half-heartedly.

The portraits were once again agitated. Their atmosphere was not that different from the night before, as their whispers and stares betrayed excitement and curiosity. A half dozen painted witches and wizards jostled one another in a painting of a severe woman in a bonnet and plain black dress, looking incongruous on a bright red pouffe against the backdrop of yellow curtains.

Harry cleared his throat. “Um, hello. We wanted to ask you if you portraits saw anyone today between five and six in the morning.”

“Us portraits? How rude! Who are you to question us?” The woman huffed down her aquiline nose at him. With her long face and dark eyes, she looked very much like an older, female version of Snape, and Harry wondered if she was one of his ancestors.

“Please answer, Antonia,” Snape said.

“All the portraits from the Grand Staircase had been in the Tapestry Corridor for our monthly bridge night and did not return to their frames until dawn.”

Well, it was worth asking, Harry thought disappointedly.

“However,” she continued, and Harry perked up. “I was returning to my own portrait in the Trophy Room—much more distinguished than this one, I must notice—”

“I graciously offered you my seat, and that’s what I get in return?” A man in golden puffy pants and stockings sputtered.

“You have to agree, it’s a little too... Gryffindor,” a pockmarked man leaning on the frame said, looking around.

“Nothing wrong with that, and young Harry Potter here should agree!”

Although Harry did, he dearly wished they would get to the point.

“As I was saying,” the woman glared at the interruption. “I decided to return early, as gambling never held much allure for me—”

“Ha! You just lost six times in a row, Prince!” the owner of the portrait said, confirming Harry’s suspicions.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Get to the point.” Judging by his voice, Snape was one remark away from a mighty snap.

“No need to get tetchy,” she said. “I will recount everything in due time.”

“Please do.”

“It was the early morn, and I was just going through the second-floor paintings, thinking about the wheel of fortune and its fickle nature, as I saw a man rushing downstairs.”

“A man? Did you recognise him?”

“Patience, young man. No, I didn’t recognise him, although I’ll admit I didn’t have a good look at him.”

“Was he tall or short? Age? Hair colour? Any distinctive features?” Snape demanded.

“In his late sixties, maybe early seventies, grey hair. It was hard for me to judge his height from up there, but I believe he wasn’t overly tall or short. I suppose he looked average.”

Harry looked at Snape questioningly. “One of the new teachers?”

“The only other addition to the staff is the Muggle Studies professor, and it’s a woman in her fifties.” Snape shook his head before turning to the painting. “Thank you for your assistance, Antonia. Did anyone else see anything suspicious?”

The other people in the painting shook their heads.

“Not that we heard of,” a woman from the neighbouring portrait said.

“Violet left soon after Antonia, didn’t she?” said a goateed man on the other side. “Maybe she can share some gos—information when we finally find her.”

“Keep your ears open.”

“Will do, Former Headmaster Snape!”

Snape winced at the title but let it slide with a grim nod.

“A grey-haired man in his late sixties?” Harry mused as they went back down to the first floor. “Maybe even older.”

After a certain point, it was hard to tell how old a wizard or witch actually were. Griselda Marchbanks was almost two hundred, which did not stop her from chasing down a Healer after he called her an old crone to his colleague and transfiguring them both into parakeets.

“Not to mention, it can be merely a disguise.”

“So you don’t have any ideas on who it could be?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Excuse me, Healer Potter, Professor Snape?” David Shaw jumped down from the windowsill in the corridor near the Hospital Wing. He rocked on the heels of his trainers, looking anxiously from under his fringe. “I just heard you talking about an old man—I didn’t mean to eavesdrop!”

“Get to the point, Mr. Shaw,” said Snape. “Did you see a man like that?”

“Yeah. I was in the library yesterday evening—Professor Babbling let me!—and there he was, in the Dragon Section. I thought you knew about him, I mean, Oliver Wood is here—”

“How did he look like?” Snape cut off David’s blabbering.

“He was with his back to me, so I didn’t see his face. Skinny; short grey hair; red jumper with reindeer. Maybe around your height. He was looking at the Dragon Directory.”

“You could see the book he was reading?” Harry asked.

“I know for sure it was that book, because it breathes fire when you open it. There’s probably a trick to open it, like with that other monster book we used to have for the Care of Magical Creatures, but I didn’t know it. Singed my eyebrows off, and it took ages for them to grow back again.” David shuffled from foot to foot. “So, um, yes. It was definitely that book.”

Snape sighed in exasperation. “When exactly did it happen?”

“I’m not sure, close to curfew?” The boy flushed, even more embarrassed than before.

“How close?”

“Half past eleven, maybe?”

“The curfew for the upper years is ten o’clock, Mr. Shaw.”

“I’m sorry, Professor Snape. I was staying late doing my Potions homework.”

Harry stifled a smile. Had he been so blatantly unconvincing as a student?

Were David to belong to any other house, Snape would be doling harsh punishments right now. But since he was dealing with his Slytherin, he made do with a dark glare. “I’m letting it slide this once, but no nightly escapades in the future. Should I see you wandering about, you’ll find yourself occupied with dirty cauldrons and flobberworms in no time. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor Snape.” David suddenly found his trainers very fascinating.

“With the murderer in the castle, I want to be aware of your whereabouts at all times.”

“I’m mostly here and in our Common Room anyway.”

“You can avoid the Hospital Wing for the next few days as well.”

“I can protect people under my charge!” Harry turned to Snape, incensed. Did he still think of Harry as kid, heedless of danger? 

“It’s unwise to tempt fate.” Snape sent him a death stare for questioning him in front of his student.

“Do you think whoever offed Smith will attack Healer Potter next?” asked David.

Harry made a face at Snape in warning.

“We still don’t know who, as you so aptly put, ‘offed’ Professor Smith and why,” Snape said smoothly. “Which means we should exercise the utmost caution.”

A house-elf with a Hogwarts crest on his toga appeared in front of them with a pop. “Lunch is served in the staffroom, Professor Snape and Harry Potter sir!"

“Mr. Shaw will have lunch with us there, Dippy.”

The elf bowed and disappeared.

Harry thought about Kreacher, who would definitely have a remark or two of his own that he would try and conceal under passive-aggressive subservience. He wondered if he could call Kreacher and ask him for the Marauder’s Map but discarded the idea. House-elf magic was strong, but it was still likely dangerous for them to apparate through magical snowstorms, and if Kreacher heard Harry, he would certainly try. The old grumbler had got fond of Harry over the years, and so had Harry if he was honest. He certainly did not want Kreacher to be stuck in that in-between Dilys Dervent had hinted upon earlier.

* * *

The table in the middle of the staffroom was expanded to host all the remaining staff, with McGonagall at the head. She eyed Oliver with undisguised disapproval as he entered, cutting in before Harry and Snape. Since the time Harry met him earlier, Oliver had gotten exponentially dirtier: his jumper now was an unidentified shade of muddy brown, and his Quidditch-style trousers were stained all the way down to his trainers. Alicia, already halfway through her bowl of soup, flicked her wand impatiently to clean the worst of the dirt from Oliver’s face and hands, embarrassment clear on her face.

“Those boulders are heavy as—incredibly heavy, but I feel like I’m getting somewhere.”

“Boulders?” McGonagall frowned.

“He’s digging through the passage in the Defence Corridor,” Snape said with a hint of irony.

McGonagall’s lips twitched. “In that case, good luck with your endeavour, Mr. Wood.”

Oliver flopped on the chair next to Alicia, and David hurried to sit next to him, looking like he was going to burst with excitement.

“Hello, Mr. Wood,” he said, aiming for nonchalance. He did not keep it for long. “You probably get that all the time, but it’s so great you were chosen as a Keeper for England! Puddlemere is the best, and that Starfish defence of yours against the Wasps’ Chasers was unbelievable!”

Wood brightened up at the compliment, eyes flashing with the same excitement that Harry remembered from his school years each time someone brought up Quidditch in his vicinity. “I usually would not recommend attempting the Starfish without Sticking, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“And it paid off! You managed to protect the goalposts even against Hawkshead Attacking Formation!” David was unreservedly gushing now.

“I hope you’re not going to attempt anything like that in the upcoming matches, Mr. Shaw,” Snape said from his place. “As much as I wish for Slytherin to win the House Cup, I want to see you live to your graduation even more.”

“Are you a Keeper too, lad?” Oliver asked. “If you’re thinking about a professional career, you have to start working on your signature moves now. Of course,” he added hastily at the glares of all the teachers at the table, “Better leave the most dangerous manoeuvres to the professionals.”

“Without question,” said McGonagall.

“Unless you’re Harry Potter, that is. I remember that Wronski Feint you did against Chang, and you didn’t even know what the Wronski Feint was!”

David turned to look at Harry sitting at his other side, looking more interested than ever before. “You did that as a student?”

“He sure did!” Oliver said. “It’s a pity you didn’t continue with Quidditch professionally, Harry.” Just like Smith, Oliver lamented Harry’s career choice almost every time they met, but unlike Smith, who brought up the Aurors to needle Harry, it came from a place of genuine regret.

Professor Babbling came into the staffroom with the two Gryffindor girls, looking around curiously.

“Come, Calliope, Emily, don’t be shy. In these trying times we all have to stay together.”

Snape frowned at them, even though he was the one to bring David along.

“The girls were eager to explore, so I thought it would be better for me to keep my eye on them, isn’t it right, my dears?”

Both looked down, contrite. Harry suspected they were more than just eager and already attempted some investigating. Harry at their age would.

“Gryffindor,” Snape muttered. He appeared to be having similar thoughts.

As two more sets of silverware appeared, Babbling sat the girls down. “Oh goodness, look at that! Everyone is here!”

Everyone except Filch, but if not for their earlier their talk, Harry would never have noticed his absence either. He could not bring himself to feel too guilty about that—he still thought of Filch with distaste even if he pitied him—but now understood the caretaker’s resentment better.

“Not everyone, Bathsheda,” said Snape. “Some new information came to my attention just now. It seems that we are not alone in the castle.”

“Oh?” Flitwick, who was sitting on a stack of books, put away his fork.

In a dry voice, Snape described the man his ancestor’s portrait had spotted. Several sharp breaths were drawn around the table.

Flitwick almost toppled from his perch. “Who might that be?” he asked. “I haven’t seen anyone like that in Hogwarts since poor Marcellus disappeared in the Bermudas.”

“What if it was just a disguise someone here used?” Alicia said with a telling glance at Snape.

The girls eyed everyone with undisguised interest and then shared a private look.

“I’ve seen this man too!” David said. “Yesterday evening, in the library.”

“Why were you even in the library, Mr. Shaw?” McGonagall asked sharply. “It is closed to the students while Madam Pince is absent.”

“I gave him my permission, Minerva,” said Babbling.

“You should have consulted me first, Bathsheda.”

Babbling frowned at McGonagall but said nothing, noticing that the students were following every word closely. “See?” she turned to them instead. “With a stranger lurking in the castle, you must stay in your dorm at all times.”

“Professor Snape already told me that,” David grumbled.

“The teachers should search the castle, Minerva,” said Flitwick.

“I agree,” said Snape. “Although if somebody wishes to stay undetected, Hogwarts provides plenty of hiding places.”

“I heard there was once a rat man living in Gryffindor Tower for many years,” David said. “An animal by day, and a human by night.”

One of the girls—Emily, Harry remembered her name—squeaked.

“What a preposterous story,” said Babbling.

“Absolutely preposterous.” Alicia nodded. “I’ve heard a lot of legends in my days, but it must be the silliest. We’ve found your gerbil for the fourth time this year, isn’t that right, Emily? And that rodent is a true escape artist. Do you think we’d somehow miss a full grown person there?”

Oliver grinned. “In the end of our seventh year, N.E.W.T.s finally made my friend snap, and he had a full manic episode, telling me that his former rat was actually a person, some guy everybody thought long dead. Later he denied ever saying that. But now that I think about that, once in our fourth year, I dreamed of a strange man rummaging through Percy’s trunk, and the next day, Percy couldn’t find his mother’s fudge. Accused me of eating it, the prat, when I know I didn’t do it that time.”

“Oliver!” Alicia exclaimed. “Don’t fuel the silly rumours.”

“But what if this man’s still there?” said Emily. “My hair clips keep going missing!”

“There is no man living in Gryffindor Tower,” Snape said. “Least of all interested in stealing your hair clips, Miss Chang.”

The girl cowed under his glare.

“But how do you know, Professor? You don’t ever come to our Tower.” Emily’s friend, Calliope, asked. She blushed, but looked defiantly at Snape, proving herself worthy of the house of the bold.

“There was once a rat animagus hiding in our Tower, so that's how the rumours must have started,” Harry said before Snape could intimidate the girls even further. “But he was… dealt with long ago.”

"It wasn't really Percy's rat, was it?" Oliver asked, worried.

Harry suddenly found his shepherd’s pie fascinating.

“Surely it can’t be true?” Babbling looked from Harry to McGonagall questioningly.

“I’m afraid that unfortunate episode did take place,” the Headmistress conceded. “The security has been tightened since.”

Harry wondered what exactly tightening the security entailed, since the Head Healer was fond of saying the very same thing after any major incident in St. Mungo’s. Usually that meant bringing the receptionist on duty to tears.

“But… This man was living in our room?” Oliver put away his spoon, looking rather green. “Why would he do that?”

“Not for the reason you are imagining now, Wood, lay your worries to rest,” Snape said. “He was simply a Death Eater feigning his death after selling his friends to the Dark Lord and killing twelve Muggles in one explosion.”

“Severus!” McGonagall exclaimed. “This is not a topic suitable for the dinner table.”

“Why, I’m learning so much right now,” Flitwick said. “Despite being Heads of our respective Houses, Pomona and I were always left out of the lion’s share of events in the castle during your years here, Harry.”

“Those were the turbulent years, but the past should be laid to rest,” said McGonagall.

Privately, Harry disagreed. However painful it was to dredge the past up, burying it was a recipe for repeating the same old mistakes, as Hermione loved to say. But it really was not the conversation to have right now.

“Peter Pettigrew is dead and is not going to haunt Gryffindor Tower, as a rat or a human,” he said. “Let’s focus on the person hiding inside the castle right now.”

“I’ll devote this evening to meditation and seek to identify this person through my third-eye chakra,” Trelawney said in her misty voice.

“You do that, Sybill,” said McGonagall.

“There might be a malefactor lurking around, and I’m trying to be helpful. Although I agree with dear Alicia, and it’s likely a clever disguise of someone known to us”—Trelawney’s eyes landed at Snape—“it’s unwise to disregard the danger. Your attitude surprises me, Minerva.”

“I will not stand for perpetuating panic and blaming each other,” McGonagall said sharply. “I’m going to look into the matter myself. The ghosts will be put on alert. Mr. Shaw, Miss Fawley and Miss Chang, you should stay in your dorms at all times unless accompanied by a member of the staff. If anybody sees this man, I want it reported to me immediately.” She flattened the napkin on her lap deliberately. “This shall do for now. From now on and until the end of this meal, I don’t want to hear of any strangers supposedly hiding in the castle.”

Reluctantly, everybody turned their attention to their food. Oliver, still looking shaken after the rat revelation, embarked on an overly cheerful explanation of a Keeper tactic he had employed last year to David. Flitwick told Trelawney about his recent dream: a Christmas bauble opening to reveal another one, transparent, inside, and Trelawney nodded along, listening intently. Both threw occasional curious glances at Harry, who covertly watched McGonagall. Despite her insistence to have an unbothered meal, she seemed to have no interest in her stew, picking at it with a faraway expression.


	6. Chapter 6

Eager to leave the paranoid atmosphere of the staffroom, Harry had volunteered to accompany David down, since Snape had still been locked in a quiet but strained conversation with McGonagall. Despite the Headmistress’s attempts to keep order, the shadow of a stranger in the castle loomed over the table. Trelawney had worked herself into quite a frenzy about it, Emily had begged Alicia to check if her gerbil is secretly an animagus, and even usually cheerful Flitwick had seemed dispirited. A walk with his hand on his wand in anticipation of an attack was a welcome diversion.

Despite tacit agreement with Snape to bring David straight to the Slytherin Common Room, Harry made a diversion to the library, where David showed him exactly where the mystery stranger was standing. The boy gave the stink eye to the Dragon Directory, which he apparently had used for his Care of the Magical Creatures N.E.W.T. class. The book did look very much like something Hagrid would choose. There was an empty slot at its side, but David did not remember the book that belonged there.

Harry waited patiently as David searched for a book to keep him busy while under lockdown, picking out a Newt Scamander’s memoir. He talked excitedly about working in the Magical Menagerie over the summer holidays and helping Hagrid on his newest salamander cross-breeding project. While happy that Hagrid had enthusiastic students to help him, Harry hoped the resulting creature would be less disastrous than his blast-ended skrewts. Over the past decade, those had spread all around the British Isles and become a source of constant frustration in Hermione’s department as not many who encountered them had Hagrid’s thick skin and affinity to animals.

Soon, however, the conversation reverted back to the murder.

“I think Spinnet did it,” the boy said as they walked down to the dungeons.

“Do you have anything to base it on, or is it just the Gryffindor-Slytherin thing?” asked Harry.

“They thought they were being discreet, but everybody knew they were an item. The girls thought they were cute, called them ‘Spinnarias’.”

“Spinnarias?” Harry repeated in disbelief. That sounded like a hex incantation or a name of some annoying disease.

“Yeah, from both of their names together. But then they broke up, and the Gryffs have been in a state of war with the badgers ever since. It was fun at first, but now it’s pretty boring to be left out.”

“Is Slytherin taking sides?”

“Officially, no.”

Harry hid a smile at the gravity of the statement.

“Gryffindors are Slytherin’s natural foes—no offence, Healer Potter,” David elaborated. “But Smith is—was such a jerk that the sympathies are mostly on the red and gold side.”

“Yours, too?”

His jaw tensed. “He still was my Uncle, you know.”

Harry frowned. “I got an impression you didn’t have a familial relationship?”

“No, he stopped talking to Mum when she married Dad. And he didn’t like me or Judith much. But that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead!” David raised his chin high, his resemblance with Smith more pronounced than ever before. He was flattening the hem of his hoodie nervously, a stark difference from the way he acted when telling about his Care of Magical Creatures projects..

“I’m not suggesting you did, David,” Harry said, watching him carefully.

They came up to the wall hiding the Slytherin Common room. It turned to a door after David muttered the password hastily.

“Thank you for accompanying me, Healer Potter.”

Before Harry could answer, the door behind David closed and became unmarked stone again. Harry stared at it in concern for a few moments, considered going after the boy despite the clear message that he was unwelcome. Did David think Harry would blame him for the murder? He supposed it would have been an avenue worth exploring if he still thought Smith was the target.

The mirror in his pocket chimed, indicating there were visitors in the Hospital Wing. That decided it; David would have to wait. Harry turned away and hurried out of the dungeons.

The door to the Hospital Wing was ajar, lights already on at three in the afternoon. Reasonably sure no ill-wishers would be so obvious, Harry still clutched his wand in his pocket as he entered.

At first glance, the ward seemed empty, but a faint sniff came from screen partitioning the bed where Smith’s body was lying. Already suspecting the identity of the visitor, Harry quietly peeked inside.

Alicia Spinnet was huddled on the visitor chair, her robe thrown over its wooden back. In a fuzzy purple sweater, twisting at a strand of her dark hair as she had done countless times on the Quidditch pitch, she looked like the girl from Harry’s school memories. Then she looked up at him, and the wary expression on her face shattered the impression. Harry was ready to leave her to her wake when she stood up and trained her wand at him.

“ _Fi_ —”

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Alicia’s wand flew from her hand, and Harry caught it, glad his Seeker reflexes were still there.

“Spinnet, what the fuck?”

“Language, Harry.” She primly shook her head, as if she had not just tried to hex him.

“I think my cursing is the least of our problems here.”

“A habit around students.”

“So. Mind telling me what that was about?”

“I’m sorry, Harry, but you’re under the influence of a spell or a potion, probably the latter. You need to purge it as soon as possible.”

“What potion?” Harry asked. Alicia had not seemed at all irrational earlier in the staffroom, but maybe that was how cracks started to show.

“Snape bewitched you!”

Harry gaped at her, speechless.

“He did! You’ve always hated him, and now, out of nowhere, you trust him blindly!”

“I disliked him because he was a mean teacher.” He was not going to explain the nuances of that particular generations-spanning relationship to her. “I wouldn’t trust Snape to referee a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, but would trust him with my life.”

“Harry, wake up! You are following him like a puppy! You should have seen yourself at the dinner table earlier!”

“What happened at the dinner table?” They had barely exchanged two words there.

“He asked you to pass the salt! And you did, with a smile!”

“And what should I’ve done instead? Throw it in his face? Pour it in a circle around myself, to fend him off?”

“It’s not funny, Harry. You blushed! Blushed! And you disregard any possibility that it was Snape who poisoned Zacharias, which is the most obvious conclusion. He has you potioned to the gills!”

“I’m a Healer, Alicia. I think I know the symptoms.”

“If you are so sure, you won’t be opposed to taking a Purging Potion,” she said, victorious.

“I don’t fancy puking my guts out for hours just because you decided that the reason I’m civil with Snape is some nefarious potion.” He had to take it twice in his life: once when a crazy fan pretending to work in the hospital canteen doctored his coffee with Amortentia, and then after Ron refused to accept his breakup with Ginny. Drinking this potion when it had nothing to counteract was not an experience Harry wished to ever repeat. “I can use Finite on myself if it makes you feel better,” he added generously.

“Please do.”

Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling but obliged. “Happy now?”

“Depends. What’s your opinion on Snape?”

“I still don’t think he is the murderer.” Harry wondered whether knowing all the information would make Alicia more or less convinced of Snape’s guilt. Probably more, but he was not going to test this theory and risk tipping off the culprit.

“He is a murderer, whether or not he had anything to do with Zach. And now this convenient stranger appears, just in time to divert attention from Snape. Witnessed only by some portrait and David Shaw, who hated Zach’s guts.” Alicia’s expression turned thoughtful. “What if it’s the boy?”

“So it’s David and not Snape now?”

“I suppose I didn’t think of Shaw because I still remember him as a wide-eyed eleven-year-old, but he isn’t anymore, is he? He did blame Zacharias for his sister’s condition.” Alicia gestured in the direction where Judith was lying, unseen by the screen. “Threatened to lock him in his father’s basement for the next full moon—I didn’t understand what it meant then.”

“Now, I don’t claim to know David,”—Especially in the light of his recent reaction—“but his sister could have easily died or might yet remain paralysed forever. People say things they don’t mean when their loved ones’ lives are in danger.”

“I sympathise with his feelings, but it’s not an excuse for how incredibly rude he was. When Zacharias explained that he could not possibly prevent Lydia from firing the spell, Shaw said that he should try being better at his job by using the stick that was currently up his arse instead of his wand. Imagine saying that to a Professor!”

Harry sensed that Alicia would not appreciate smiling with Smith’s body three feet from him, so he did his best to keep a straight face. “Do you really have reasons to suspect David?” he asked. “Besides things said in the heat of the moment?”

She sagged back onto the stool. “I just want to make some sense of all this mess. Zach is dead, the murderer is here in the castle, and nothing is clear.” She stared at Smith’s lax face forlornly.

“I understand.” Harry put his hand on her shoulder briefly. “You want to know the truth, just like we all do. More so, even. But the simple answer is often the wrong one, you know?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Tea?” He was eager to leave Smith to his peace.

“Can I have my wand back?”

“Are you going to attack me again?”

Alicia sighed. “No.”

Harry returned her wand, handle first, and watched it disappear in her pocket before venturing to the office to get some tea. Madam Pomfrey had a tea set in a glass-door cabinet; white porcelain with a floral pattern, surrounded by tea cozies, not unlike the one Aunt Petunia kept for important guests. It was a far cry from the translucent china of Grimmauld Place that he had got out exactly once, to chuck it into the attic, but Harry hesitated taking it out, used to the five-knut mugs which most Healers had in the hospital.

“You can just order some from the kitchen,” Alicia said, coming in as well. “Dippy!”

The same house-elf that had come to call them for dinner earlier appeared. “What does Professor Spinnet wish?”

“Tea, please.”

The elf bowed out and in a few moments, returned with a tray laden with biscuits and miniature cakes. Harry was grateful for a big pot with Hogwarts crest since he didn’t get to have any tea with his hasty retreat from the staffroom. He put the neat stack of parchments on Poppy’s desk away to make more room, thinking guiltily of his own desk in the Pediatric Ward, littered with parchments with mug rings on them.

“Thank you, Dippy.”

“Zach always told me that it’s wrong to speak to them this way—house-elves, I mean,” she said after Dippy disappeared again with another bow and a pop. “Apparently, you are not supposed to say things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to them all the time.”

“That’s Doxy shite.”

Old pureblood families had regarded their help as little more sentient than a vacuum cleaner. While people tend to treat their elves better than Malfoy Senior—or Sirius, if Harry was completely honest—they did it for purely practical reasons rather than any regard for the house-elves’ feelings. The mere idea of house-elves having feelings other than the desire to serve was worthy of nothing but ridicule in many circles. Harry came a long way from laughing off Hermione’s fourth-year crusade, even if she had gone about it in the stupidest way possible. Now Head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she made a lot of headway in improving house-elves’ rights, but within the confines of their homes, wizards still could get away with all sorts of inhumane practices.

“Yeah, that’s what I would tell him. I’m just not raised that way. And this was the reason, wasn’t it?”

“The reason?”

“The reason we broke up. He wasn’t a bigot, but he always was uncomfortable with some of my views. I’m a Half-Blood, you see, and while my father is a wizard, he’s not a Brit. He’s from America and was a Quadpot champion in the seventies,” she explained. “Zacharias thought I would never be able to grasp some things English pureblood wizards suck in with their mother’s milk.”

Privately, Harry thought that made Smith a bigot alright.

“I suspect his family played a role as well. They were never outright disapproving, to my face at least, but I know they thought he could do better.” She moved to pour tea in their cups, likely to have her hands occupied with something. “We were together for three years. He wasn’t the kind of man to fly his broom to my window with a rose in his teeth to sweep me off for a moonlit voyage, but I thought we were happy. I was waiting for him to propose on my birthday.”

Harry took his own cup and inhaled the steam of the perfectly brewed tea. He had always been pants at relationship talk, but thankfully Alicia didn’t expect him to say anything.

“I brought up kids in September, and he shut the conversation. Again. He would always do that when I tried to talk about the future. So we got in an argument, and that’s when my place in his life came out. Convenient enough to date while we are both teaching at Hogwarts, but not wife material.”

“What a wanker,” Harry could not help but say.

“He told me he loved me and didn’t want to lose me, but he had certain ‘expectations’ placed on him.” Alicia gestured quotation marks with her fingers. “Wanted us to continue as if nothing had happened since he had plenty of time before he needed to think about marriage.”

“And you didn’t accept this rubbish offer.”

“No. I had some self-respect left. But—” She bit her lip slightly. “Maybe I did hope he’d change his mind, see what he lost because he took me for granted. Foolish, I know.”

“What about Oliver?”

“It’s nothing serious. We’ve been on and off for years since Hogwarts, before I got together with Zach.”

“Does Oliver agree it’s nothing serious?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Ollie has one true love, and that’s his broom. No one could ever compare to Quidditch for him.” Regret flickered across her face. “But I wish I hadn’t invited him here yesterday.”

“So he wouldn’t try to clear the passageful of rocks singlehandedly to get to his training?”

“This here is why I couldn’t date him in the first place,” she said with an exasperated eye roll. “But no. The sky won’t rain brimstone and Fiendfyre on his head if he misses one single training. What I regret is that Zach saw us yesterday evening together—we still live in adjacent quarters, even share a balcony. I was thinking about transfiguring the wall back, but it’s cold and I don’t use it anyway. And now there’s no point, right?” She looked as if she was going to cry again, but collected herself with a steadying breath. “Late at night, he banged at our internal door—I have it sealed from my side—clearly drunk. Maybe if he hadn’t seen us, he wouldn’t have drunk that godforsaken wine.”

So Alicia wanted to make her ex jealous, bringing Oliver in hope that Smith would regret his treatment of her. Perhaps try to win her back. Harry imagined her bringing Oliver to that shared balcony—not yesterday, it had been too cold for that, but maybe earlier—so that Smith could see what he had lost.

“He was the reason you broke up, and you had every right to move on,” he said. “No one could have expected what happened.”

Her reply was cut off by stomping footsteps outside the office. Frowning lightly, she half-turned in her chair just as Oliver entered, nursing his hand.

“Hey, Harry, can you—Oh, here you are, Alicia. Should I be concerned about you cozying up with our favourite former teammate while I’m busy digging us out?” Despite his amicable tone, his smile was tight on the edges, and he watched the tea tray as if it was a rival team’s Quaffle.

Whatever Alicia had said, he seemed to disagree with her assessment of their relationship.

“Nobody is asking you to do that.” She gave him an unimpressed shrug.

“Yeah, well—”

“Did you want me to look at your hand, Oliver?” Harry interrupted, standing up from the desk.

Oliver held out his middle finger. It was bent into an unnatural angle, but Harry also suspected Oliver enjoyed showing it to him a little too much.

“You don’t want to play with Alicia’s affections, Harry. She’s a dangerous woman. See what happened to the last boyfriend who treated her badly,’ he said flippantly.

“Oliver!”

“What, Allie? I’m just stating the facts.”

Harry sighed, casting a double cleaning charm on the hand and examining the finger. “I’m not playing with Alicia’s affections, Oliver. You know I’m not interested in women.”

“And yet, the papers are always reporting your affairs with them.”

“You know better than to believe the Prophet. Weren’t you supposedly having a threesome with Ginny Weasley and her teammate from the Harpies this summer?”

Oliver’s hand relaxed in his. “Maybe I was.”

“Not according to Ginny, who was on a romantic trip to Paris with her fiancé at the time.” Harry squeezed the finger lightly.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” He was not. “Unpleasant, but you don’t want me to leave you with a partially unhealed fracture. _Episkey_.”

Oliver clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Thanks, mate!”

“Want a cuppa?” Harry offered.

“No, I’m good. I feel like the storm is coming to an end, so I’ll go try the door again.”

As he turned to leave, Harry didn’t need to look at the window to know that the white rage outside had not abated in the least.

Alicia watched his retreating form with a frown on her face. She fiddled with her wand before casting an Incendio at the fireplace. The fire rose from the logs, creaking and crackling. Alicia stood up and took a snow globe with a miniature replica of Hogwarts inside from the mantelpiece. She seemed to be the type of person who found comfort in the tactile and needed something to occupy her hands, especially when nervous. Shaken into a likeness of the actual storm outside, the snow inside the globe gently fell onto the tiny turrets.

“So you really don’t believe Snape poisoned Zach?” she finally asked.

“No, I don’t.” Harry looked at her curiously. “I also don’t think he bewitched me.”

She looked slightly embarrassed. “I might have overreacted there. We’ve all had our crushes on the wrong people.”

“I don’t have a crush on Snape!” Harry sputtered.

“If you say so,” Alicia said, but she did not sound very sure. There was obviously something else on her mind.

Harry waited quietly for her to collect her thoughts, still outraged at her previous insinuation.

She took a deep breath. “Oliver wasn’t in my room all the time in the early morning today.”

“But didn’t you say—”

“Yes, yes, I did say he stayed there throughout the night. I didn’t have time to think, and I didn’t want Oliver in trouble. I don’t know when exactly he left; I was asleep. But he woke me up around six when he returned. Said he tried to leave. He’d mentioned he had to be up early yesterday, so I didn’t think anything about it.”

“And now?”

“I’m not saying Oliver killed Zach!” Her voice rose high. “I know him since we were kids. He wouldn’t do something like that. He is not that kind of person.” She seemed to be trying to convince herself. “I just wanted to set things straight.”

Alicia did not want to believe, but clearly the weight of suspicion was gnawing on her, Harry observed. She must also have seen Oliver’s behaviour as suspicious and now, confronted with his jealousy, thought she had found a possible motive. Harry wondered how much her quickness to blame Snape and even David stemmed from denial. Or maybe by bringing up up all suspects, Alicia wanted to divert the attention from herself, a nagging voice in his head suggested.

“Please don’t tell McGonagall,” Alicia said, suddenly worried. “She always finds fault with every little thing: from policing my hair to the number of my weekends off. She’d prefer it to be zero. Christ, I wish I didn’t take that promotion.”

“You don’t like to be the Head of the House?”

“Frankly, no. I was so much happier just being a Transfiguration Professor. I could spend a night out without worrying if the new generation of wannabe Weasley twins were blowing up the Tower in my absence. I could leave for the whole weekend without explaining myself to McGonagall and finding a substitute to keep an eye on my students. I don’t remember her stepping her foot in the Tower more than twice a year!”

“Maybe she should have,” Harry said. While he had enjoyed his freedom as a student, so many problems could have been solved if their then Head of the House had paid more attention.

“Absolutely. I swear, those kids live to look for trouble, all day, every day. It’s the hypocrisy that gets to me. Hypocrisy and unfair expectations. Flitwick and Sprout are pushing hundreds, their kids and grandkids are all grown up now, and Snape doesn’t seem to have any life outside Hogwarts at all. But she cannot expect a young teacher to be here bell-to-bell.”

Harry made a sympathetic noise. “My boss thinks that forty-eight-hour shifts are no reason to complain about.” He thought about his own failed relationships that had not withstood the test of his workload. It was never the only problem, of course.

Alicia looked at the grandfather clock in the corner and sighed. “In fact, I’d better go check on my firsties right now. Babbling has taken care of them so far, but is already suggesting I’m a murderer; I don’t want to add ‘slacker’ to that. In McGonagall’s eyes, that is a capital offence.”

With that, she left, refusing Harry’s offer to accompany her to the Gryffindor Tower in case the murderer was lurking behind the nearest suit of armour. Having snatched the last biscuit before Dippy took the tea tray away, Harry administered the last dose of Skele-Gro to Judith and settled on the transfigured armchair at her bedside. Watching the darkness behind the lancet windows deepen, he tried to figure out how the Alicia and Oliver’s relationship drama and the odd behaviour of David Shaw where his Uncle was concerned fit in with the murder of Zacharias Smith. The murder that had actually been an attempt on his own life.

Not for the first time, he rejoiced that he had not joined the Aurors, since the pieces of the puzzle were few and mostly seemed to belong to a different puzzle altogether.


	7. Chapter 7

Day or night, St. Mungo’s was always a hive of activity, so tending to a patient in solitude, with only the howling wind for company, was a novel experience for Harry. To take his mind off things while he was monitoring Judith, Harry summoned a mystery novel he had brought with him. Hermione was always nagging at him to read more, doubling down after she had finally written Ron off as a lost cause in that regard. He did read much more than at school now, but those were mostly medical journals and magical pathology books.

After a long shift, he could only bring himself to watch a television charmed to work at Grimmauld Place against Kreacher’s loud protests. He would watch some mind-numbing show for a bit before passing out on the couch, and listen to Kreacher’ derisive recounting of the parts he missed the next day, even though the house-elf never showed himself in the sitting room when Harry was there. Despite the grouching about degenerate muggles, Harry was used to hearing the television turning on ostensibly by itself. He suspected Kreacher hadn’t missed an episode of EastEnders in years.

This was the first time in months he had time to read for pleasure, but the nervous energy simmered just under his skin, urging him to move, to do something. Harry did his best to immerse himself in the adventures of a war veteran turned detective and his sidekick secretary investigating very suspicious suicide, but his thoughts kept wandering to Smith.

He barely turned any pages when the clock struck seven. Harry checked on Judith to see that her spine had settled correctly: the cervical vertebrae were the trickiest to regrow. The monitoring spells told him that he could bring her out of the magical comma as early as tomorrow. Harry looked at the screen on the other side of the ward. Judith will have to stay under his supervision for some time, and the proximity to the dead body of her Uncle could not be very helpful for the girl’s recuperation.

Satisfied with his patient, Harry stood up. What would that fictional detective do? He would surely have made sense of the situation by now.

Behind the screen, Smith mirrored his niece on the narrow cot, but unlike Judith, he would not be waking up anytime soon. The first time Harry had faced a dead body was a year after the war. He remembered his tunnelling vision and constricted breath as he along with another trainee went down to the morgue, the rush of memories, the smoke of the last battle in Hogwarts filling his nostrils. As with many things in his life, he had got over his reaction to death enough to do what needed to be done. He was the master of it, after all.

The tip of Smith’s wand was peeking out from the pocket where Snape had stuffed it earlier, and Harry berated himself for not thinking to check them. For a moment, he hesitated—this was likely the sort of things the Aurors would frown upon—but the rules had never stopped him before.

The insides of Smith’s pockets were organised chaos. A bronze crested clip held a bundle of receipts, the family sigil looking incongruous against the note to close his running tab in Hog’s Head. Aberforth’s cursive handwriting bore a startling similarity to his brother’s, if only much spikier. A dragonhide wallet bit Harry’s finger when he tried to unclasp it, while the daily planner with a regal-looking badger opened readily enough, but contained nothing but messy Defence lesson plans and assigned homework. There were two letters from Smith’s mother, one telling him that his second cousin Susan was coming for Boxing Day, and the other begging him to reconsider staying at Hogwarts for the holidays, a photo of him and Alicia at the summer bank of the Black Lake, and a vintage postcard of the Christmas tree on Trafalgar Square stuffed in-between. The latest issue of the _Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_ had ‘Smith’ written over a blond man with shifty red eyes, creeping behind the main character. The man’s hair was enhanced by giving him a receding hairline and a crudely drawn overcomb. Harry could just imagine how many points Smith had taken from the hapless student he had confiscated it from. There were crumbs and sugar powder on the pages, likely from an opened package of Ice Mice.

Sighing, Harry stuffed everything back. It was a long shot, but at least he learned that Martin helped a dashing Hadrian Porter, who struck a Lockhartian pose on every panel, defeat the mysterious Basilisk Man who petrified his victims.

His feet brought him to the Defence Corridor. The hunchback, one-eyed witch’s statue stood open, and Harry peered inside. The passage was empty, and he marvelled at its narrow walls and low ceiling, just enough space for an adult man to squeeze in. Harry remembered him, Ron and Hermione moving there so freely. His memory did not lie about the ugliness of the statue, however.

“They did you dirty, Madam de Gorsemoor,” he said, recognising the Healer who had discovered a cure for Dragon Pox from a much more flattering portrait in St. Mungo’s.

The statue shook her head, as if saying, ‘What would you do?’ Harry had never seen her do anything other than open and close the passage. Even after years of walking its halls, Hogwarts was still full of undiscovered secrets.

“Perhaps you also know where Oliver went?” he asked, not at all counting on any answer.

The statue slowly raised her hand and pointed her gnarly stone finger at the tapestry with a goblin king presenting a sword to Godric Gryffindor down the corridor.

Saluting the witch, Harry dived behind the tapestry. He stepped out into the pitch-black darkness on the other side. A moment later, his Lumos illuminated the bottom of the spiral staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower. It explained the lack of light: sconces were only on in this part of the castles on the nights there were Astronomy lessons.

Loud gusts of the wind accompanied familiar swearing from above. One particularly loud crash later, Oliver stomped downstairs with his own lit wand in one hand and his broom in another.

“I thought since highs always worked better for me than lows, I could try the towers instead of underground. But Hogwarts is being stubborn.” He looked at the wall as if he considered punching it but wisely contained himself. With the way Hogwarts was right now, he could reasonably expect payback soon.

“You wanted to take off from the tower? That’s suicide!”

“The weather during our match with the Cannons four years ago was worse,” Oliver said blithely.

“I wasn’t the same at all, and you know it. And if I remember correctly, three players fell off from their brooms and another two got severe freezer burns, including you.”

“And your colleagues put me back on my feet in no time!”

“That’s not the point, Oliver.” This type of patients—mostly Quidditch players and Ministry workaholics—was the worst.

They stopped at the drafty landing, at the window covered with a white blanket of snow. The tower itself had to be buried in snow up to the turrets, Harry thought, or it would be a perfect place to witness the storm in all its fury and might. Astronomy lessons had always felt like a chore when he had been younger, but they did put things into perspective. The Scottish sky, vast and limitless. And never had it looked so close and untouchable as the last time he had been there, that night of Dumbledore’s death. He wondered if Snape came here often.

“Do you think it looks weird, me trying to leave like that?” Oliver asked with a sudden frown.

“Well, you might be creating the wrong impression,” Harry said diplomatically.

“I’ve just seen Alicia. She was talking Doxie twaddle, as she always does when something’s been bothering her, but she doesn’t want to say what. You see, I know her, know better than that posh twat ever could.” Oliver paused, knuckles white on the handle of his broom. “She told you I’d left early in the morning.”

That wasn’t a question, but Harry gave him a nod.

“I went down, tried the front door, and went back up. That’s all. And now Allie looks at me with this horrible suspicion on her face.”

“It’s hard for all of us to be in the dark. When stressed to the limit, people do and say things they later regret. For what it's worth, I don’t think you are her first suspect. She tried to free me of Snape’s bewitchment earlier.”

“Did she succeed?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Nope. Snape’s charms proved too strong.”

“Every time I’ve been slipped Amortentia, I’ve had an urge to serenade the person. That’s how I knew something was up the last time. Well, that, and the pink hippogriffs I hallucinated because the potion was lousy,” said Oliver. “Do you have an uncontrollable urge to burst into a song?”

“Last Christmas I gave him my heart,” Harry sang. “But the very next day he chopped it away. Into a foul and disgusting potion.”

Oliver laughed but then sobered. “I understand where Alicia is coming from,” he said. “I would probably suspect me too. Yesterday, I accused her of inviting me only to make her ex jealous, and in the morning, the ex is dead."

“You had an argument?” Harry asked.

“Nothing serious. It was expected, after all. I sidelined Alicia so many times in the past; I can’t expect our relationship to be just like before. When you don’t pay attention to your goalposts, somebody else will score in them.”

“True,” Harry said. The thought of his own relationships doomed before the start because he sidelined them for his job dampened the urge to snicker at Oliver’s trademark Quidditch comparisons.

“So I might’ve wanted to whack Smith’s bald head with a Beater Bat when they were together, but I did nothing then and certainly wouldn’t now when they broke up already. Alive, the wanker would only need to run his fat mouth again to put off Allie for good, and he’d’ve done it in no time.”

"Have you seen anything suspicious when you came down?" Harry asked.

“No, I haven’t. There was light coming from the Great Hall, but the door was half-closed. I didn’t look, even silenced my sneakers in case it’s McGonagall.”

“McGonagall?"

“I didn’t want to get Alicia in trouble with her.”

Harry remembered what Filch said about the door rattling seemingly by itself. This must have been Oliver. So far, the story checked out. Of course, he could have done anything earlier without being heard, but Harry was inclined to believe in him. This left two other people involved. Even if one of them was a mystery man from the library, the other person had to be among the people he had spent this day with, and Harry was no closer to determining who it was.

* * *

Oliver headed to the Gryffindor Tower, and Harry made a mental note to make a visit there as well at a later date to check Smith’s room. Regardless of his suspicions, the last thing he wanted was to have Oliver or Alicia hover over his shoulder. Or run to McGonagall who might not be overly thrilled about his initiative.

So instead, Harry found himself back in the dungeons. He told himself that the only reason for this trip was to see David, but his feet slowed down to a leisurely walk at the portrait of Paracelsus. What was Snape doing right now? Despite his outward apathy to the suspicion of his colleagues, he must have been feeling the Damocles’ sword of it over his head all the time. Harry found himself searching for an excuse to talk to Snape this evening, even though he doubted that he would be welcome, even with his Christmas serenade ready. Especially with the Christmas serenade.

“Please notify me of anything of suspect you might see,” Harry heard Snape say from around the corner.

“Of course, Severus,” another male voice answered, echoey and low.

Harry ventured out to see who Snape was talking to, and came face to face with the Bloody Baron floating off in clanging of his ghostly chains. The spectre did not slow down, coming right through Harry instead. Harry shivered violently at the feeling of a bucketful of ice pouring down his body. He thought it was impossible for the dungeons to get even colder, but apparently, he was wrong.

“Potter? What are you doing here?” Snape asked.

“I w-was g-going to talk to D-david,” Harry said, teeth chattering.

“Whatever you wish to discuss with him can be discussed with me as his Head of House.”

That was not how it worked, but Harry was not going to argue, especially when Snape murmured his password to Paracelsus and motioned for Harry to come in. Maybe he was not so unwelcome, after all.

The rush of warmth enveloped him as soon as he entered, half magic and half cheery hearth Harry had spotted yesterday. He looked around curiously. The living room had the air of masculine coziness to it, one that came from the well-worn leather of the sofa rather than knick-knacks on the mantelpiece. It was filled with all kinds of books, heavy leather tomes and muggle paperbacks. One shelf was stacked with records, and Harry noticed an old-fashioned record player on the coffee table. A potions journal laid open on an armchair, an inkwell and a quill hovering just above. Next to the small kitchenette, the window showed the lights of the mermish town, distant and pale in the dark waters of the lake. There was no Christmas tree, not even a single branch of mistletoe in sight.

“No decorations?” Harry grinned.

“I abhor such frivolities,” said Snape.

It must not have been entirely true, as there was a framed black-and-white photo of a woman and a child standing in front of a Christmas tree outside a big department store, big letters LEWIS’S illuminated over their heads. Her rather dingy coat looked like a witch’s cloak, shortened to look as per fashion muggles would wear at the time. She beamed at the camera, while the kid at her side, no older than eight or nine, scowled from under his knitted hat.

Coming over to the fireplace, Harry smiled at the picture, and Snape, noticing the direction of his look, waved his hand to turn it around. For a moment, his expression was identical to his younger self. Harry found it rather, dared he say it, adorable, but made sure to push the outrageous thought to the back of his mind. Should Snape ever hear it, Harry’s body would never be found.

He wondered if Snape ever smiled like his mother on that photo. The honest joy made her face look almost attractive. Snape did not have much happiness in his life, but then again, Eileen Prince probably had not either.

“If you’re quite finished gawking around.” Snape said, settling down onto the armchair and leaving Harry the sofa.

“It smells rather Christmassy here, though,” Harry said, breathing in the cinnamon and nutmeg scent wafting in the room. He looked over to the kitchenette where a cauldron was simmering on the stove. Had Snape set out to bottle Christmas spirit? And probably succeeded, too.

Snape huffed but did not otherwise acknowledge the statement. “What did you want Mr. Shaw for?” he asked instead, getting straight to business. “If you’re suspecting the boy because of his House affiliation—”

Harry wished Snape would not interpret everything he did or said in the worst way possible. “I don’t. But he was acting weird when I brought up Smith. I doubt he poisoned his Uncle, but he might have seen something.”

“I’ve had a talk with the boy after I returned from the staffroom,” Snape said after a moment of hesitation.

“Did he tell you anything?” Harry leaned forward slightly.

“I fact, he did not.”

“But—?”

“Why do you think there’s a ‘but’ here?”

“I can hear it in your tone.”

“And when did you become an expert in that?”

He sighed in exasperation. “Just tell me what you learned, please.”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “You must understand Mr. Shaw’s feelings for Smith, which are more than justified.”

“Smith never acknowledged their relation and, if I ever knew anything about the man, was a dick about it. And then David blamed Smith for what happened with his sister.”

“Correct. Public accusations were thrown, which some might interpret as threats. Especially in the view of Smith’s subsequent demise.”

“Alicia told me about that.”

“Does she believe he and I are working together?” Snape asked with a derisive snort. “Watch out, Potter, she’ll soon claim I’m using potions to gain your trust.”

“If these potions smell half as good as whatever you’ve got here, I’ll take my chances.” Harry said with a nod to the cauldron. “David’s behaviour is understandable in that situation and not enough of a reason to suspect him. Especially since I was the real target.”

“The boy doesn’t know that.”

“So he’s afraid he’ll be blamed?”

“He is.”

He thought back to the conversation and Snape’s cryptic tone. That could not be all there was to it. “Is there’s something else he’s not telling?”

Snape got up and went to the kitchenette, waving his wand over the cauldron. “Before coming to the Hospital Wing in the morning, he went into the Great Hall.”

“So he saw Smith?”

“Mr. Shaw saw him lying face down on the table and the overturned goblet from the doors, decided he was drunk, and left,” he said with his back to Harry.

“This is what he told you?”

“As I said, he told me nothing.”

“You read his mind!” Harry accused. For a wild moment, he was sure Snape was aware of every inappropriate thought Harry had about him before remembering that his mental defences, admittedly rather feeble, were nevertheless enough to detect an intrusion. He scrunched his face in an attempt to strengthen them.

Snape watched him over his shoulder in amusement, undoubtedly aware of what Harry was doing. “As I once told you, Legilimency is not as simple as a muggle concept of mind-reading.” Obeying his hand, two tall glasses flew from the cupboard, and the ladle poured milky-white liquid from the cauldron into them. “In this case, the memory was on the forefront of his mind, all but projecting itself to any halfway-competent Legilimens.”

“Did you check others?”

“The staff is aware of my abilities. Anything other than surface-level Legilimency can be detectable even without Occlumency shields, and some of my colleagues do have those. And despite Albus’s liberal use of the art, invasion of the mind is considered an attack equivalent to drawing a wand and firing an offensive spell.”

“But you used it on David?”

“I did not ransack his mind, if that is what you’re asking. I probed lightly, and that gave me an opening for the conversation.”

“I can just imagine how it went.”

“Surprisingly good, all things considered.” Snape returned to his armchair, two glasses and a scotch bottle floating beside him. He topped a generous amount of amber liquid in his own and looked questioningly at Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry nodded to the addition and took the proffered glass of fragrant milky-white liquid.

Their fingers met, and Harry suppressed a shiver. Snape’s gaze did not betray anything as he held it for a long moment, and for the first time, Harry wondered if Snape felt it as well. Was it possible that the man was interested? Harry’s eyes travelled to the loose collar of Snape’s black robe that revealed the faded scar. It had been unvaryingly done up since Harry came to Hogwarts the day before. For his usual prickly self, Snape was rather amenable, putting his guards down and treating him to a drink in his personal quarters.

Harry gave himself a mental kick. He that was reading too much into what was definitely wishful thinking. Snape just wanted to talk about the murder, because the sooner they solved the mystery, the fewer problems with the Aurors he would have.

To cover his sudden embarrassment, Harry tried the drink. With the first creamy sip, warmth and content settled around him like a blanket. “Good stuff. Your eggnog is better than Molly’s.”

“High praise indeed,” Snape said, bringing his own glass to his thin lips.

Harry wondered what Snape would do if Harry were to lick the sadly non-existent eggnog smears from them. Probably eviscerate him on the spot.

With a Herculean effort, he remembered what they had been talking about, and that served as enough of a cold shower to get back to the conversation. “So you didn’t read other teachers’ minds,” he said. “What about Oliver?”

Snape huffed. “Wood’s mind is all Quidditch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s an elaborate Occlumency technique.”

“He admitted he tried to leave earlier in the morning, and it checks out with what Filch said. So we need to find the two other people. It’s unclear if the second one is an accomplice, though.” Harry frowned. “But if they aren’t, why not say something?”

“People lie and keep quiet for all kinds of reasons, Miss Marple.”

“Stop calling me that,” Harry said half-heartedly, because the drink in his hand was too damn delicious to get truly angry with its creator. “Why can’t I be, I don’t know, Hercule Poirot instead?”

“Why would you want to?” Snape looked at Harry as if he was an idiot. “That one was the most insufferable know-it-all to ever exist in literature.”

“The moustache was neat, though.”

“If you ever grow one like that, I _will_ feed you poison. For the sake of humanity.”

Harry laughed, leaning back on the sofa. As a single, childless Healer, he usually spent holiday season on long shifts at the hospital, and before he agreed to stand in for Poppy, this year was not going to be an exception. Despite accusing Snape of having no decorations, Harry had not bothered to put up any himself for years, content with his share of Christmas cheer between the Burrow and Andromeda and Teddy’s house. How curious that Snape would be the one to reintroduce the simple comfort of eggnog and easy banter at the fireplace to his life, he thought. Or maybe it was not so strange after all. Of all the things that could bring them to this room together, sharing a friendly, festive drink, murder coupled with a magical storm sounded about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any delays in answering your comments! I cherish each one of them <3


	8. Chapter 8

It was well past ten when Harry left Snape’s quarters, humming a tune from the record he persuaded Snape to play. It was rather upbeat, despite the singer professing the desire to paint the whole world around him black. Certainly more fun than listening to the wireless that played the same half dozen Christmas songs over and over, even though Snape mocked him ruthlessly when Harry attempted to sing along. Apparently, his musical talent was less developed than Neville’s aptitude for potions. Harry conceded that Snape’s opinion was understandable, but only because he had never had to sit through Hermione trying to recreate her favourite song from the show about a green witch she had dragged both Harry and Ron to.

He did not know what to think about their time together that started under the pretence of talking strictly business, rather thinly-veiled on his part, and got progressively flirtier as they shared their second glasses of eggnog. Or perhaps it was all in his head. Since it was Snape he was dealing with, the line between flirty and insulting was thin indeed.

This doubt had stopped Harry from making any overt moves, but still he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. His social life had become rather non-existent recently, he had to admit. Ron and Hermione were preoccupied with their second baby, whose arrival had cut short Harry’s only proper date this year. Harry shuddered, remembering Ernie Macmillan’s older brother, a man so dull he would make Binns seem lively in comparison. He did not know what precise combination of spite and hormones made Hermione set them up, but he would be eternally grateful to little Hugo for his timing.

This evening was much closer to his idea of a good date night, Harry had to admit. Perhaps he was that screwed up of a person, and normal folk were supposed to find their date’s job at the Ministry a more engaging topic than murder plots. Oh well, Harry had accepted that there was nothing normal about his life long ago.

The darkness retreated deeper into the dungeons, giving way to Harry’s Lumos, and Bloody Baron was clunking his chains rhythmically somewhere nearby, a weirdly reassuring rather than frightening sound. He would have great stage presence if he ever decided to create a rock band, Harry thought as he emerged at the ground level.

Something was off there, and Harry’s hand reached for his wand before he even realised what exactly. The door of the Great Hall was half-open, and Binns was nowhere to be seen.

With a non-verbal Nox, Harry peeked inside, wishing for his Invisibility Cloak. He could not see anybody right away, but a dim light was coming from behind the Christmas tree. The branches on one side moved.

“Ow! I told you not to go through me, it’s gross!” A girl’s voice echoed loudly across the empty hall.

“I want to see what’s going on.” The whiny notes in the new speaker’s voice were painfully familiar. “I didn’t have to let you in, you know.”

“Shhh! You two will wake up the whole castle!”

Harry lit his wand and strode inside. There were gasps and some jostling as the perpetrators noticed him halfway in and dove under the staff table.

“Get out of there, girls,” Harry said. “I know you’re here.”

"It isn’t Snape," one of them whispered loudly, Calliope or Emily, he wasn’t sure which. “What if it’s the murderer?”

“Either way, we are dead.”

“It’s me, Healer Potter.”

“Of course you’d say that,” the first girl scoffed from under the table. “I watched enough horror movies to know when to keep hiding.”

“What’s a horror movie?” the second voice asked.

“My life is a horror film,” the too familiar voice said with a wobbly note.

“What’s a film?”

“I’ll tell you later,” the first hissed before questioning the third, Harry’s presence seemingly forgotten, “ _You_ know what a horror film is?”

“I watched the _Wolf Man_ in the cinema in 1941. Blood-curdling experience; I couldn’t sleep for a month straight. Reminded me of Olive Hornby’s bad hair days. And now I only have that stupid Headless Hunt for entertainment. It gets really old after the first twenty years, you know.”

Harry prayed for patience. If he was indeed a villain in a horror film, this would be the time to concede his surrender and retire.

The quibbling started anew. “Why don’t you go check if it’s really Harry Potter?”

“Why should I? Sacrificing me to the murderer first, eh?”

“Well, you are already kind of... dead.”

The silvery spectre of Moaning Myrtle emerged through the table, soared to the turbulent sky of the charmed ceiling, and dived back, landing before Harry. “Everyone is out to mock me!”

“Hi, Myrtle.” Harry was struck by how young she seemed now. Barely a teenager, old enough for spots and insecurities, but still wearing those silly pigtails. Stuck as an eternal fourteen-year-old in a place where no one cared enough to even ask her how she had died. As an adult, Harry could not imagine a sadder fate for a child.

“You’re too old to be Harry Potter,” she said, looking him up and down.

“I’m twenty-eight now.”

“I suppose you are. But how can you prove it?”

“My friend once accidentally turned into half-cat in your bathroom.” Harry silently sent his excuses to Hermione. He was not going to mention the Chamber and risk the girls exploring there. Somehow, he was sure that they would do exactly that.

Myrtle brightened. “Oh yes, I remember that as if it was yesterday. So embarrassing,” she crowed.

“Right.” He suddenly remembered why he found her so obnoxious in the first place. Another reason against becoming a ghost as a teenager: one would never have a chance to outgrow being a tightly wound coil of self-centred angst. Harry wondered what nickname a ghost of his own fifteen-year-old self would get.

“It’s safe, girls. He’s really Harry Potter.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asked as she turned to float off.

“Binns shoved the guard duty off on me, as if I don’t have anything better to do. Didn’t even ask, just told me to go stand here, old dotard. I haven’t been his student for half a century!”

Calliope and Emily appeared from under the table, glancing at the wine spot with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Don’t be mad at us, Healer Harry—I mean, Healer Potter!”

“It’s alright, you can still call me that, Callie.” Her traditional parents insisted on using titles every time they brought her to St. Mungo’s, but Harry always tried to foster trust rather than propriety. Merlin knew she needed it. “What is not alright is to sneak out past curfew when a murderer is on the loose.” He dearly wished for Hermione’s presence right now. Scolding was not something he had ever been good at, even after years of working with children.

“But you have to see this!” She stood up straighter and raised her hand as if they were in a classroom.

“We found evidence!” Emily chimed in.

“Evidence?” Harry was intrigued despite himself.

Had they all missed something?

He circled the staff table to where the girls were standing near the Christmas tree. The baubles reflected the light of their wands and the floating candles that followed Harry, deceptively festive.

“Look!” Calliope exclaimed, going around the tree and pointing her wand at a spot between it and the wall.

A red bauble lay shattered on the floor. Looking closer, Harry noticed that some branches were clearly disturbed, the decorations hanging in less than perfect order. A crystal icicle was squashed between the green needles, a hole gaping at one side.

“The murderer was hiding right here!” Emily said, sounding excited and scared in equal measure.

Harry had to admit it was plausible. Smith must have disturbed the preparations, and the murderer retreated behind the tree. Had Smith seen who it was in the end?

“I see,” he said. “I agree, it looks suspicious, but it might also have been Dolores playing with the baubles. Not enough evidence to warrant leaving the tower after curfew when we do have a murderer in the castle, don't you think?”

The girls looked down, shuffling from foot to foot in a twin motion.

“At your age, I was just like you, breaking all the rules to solve a mystery,” Harry said. “I’ll be a hypocrite if I said I regret all or even most of it. Often, I would believe my friends and I were the only ones who could make a difference. But some of my reckless actions had catastrophic consequences, and to this day, I wish I would’ve stopped and thought twice before diving headfirst.” He looked from one contrite little face to another. “I don’t want you to endanger your lives just because you’re curious.”

“We’re sorry,” Emily and Calliope mumbled in unison.

“Now, let’s get you to your dorms, and I’ll be speaking to your Head of the House in the morning.”

That plan fell apart right outside the Great Hall, where they came face to face with a furious Snape and the Bloody Baron. One glare from the ghost made Moaning Myrtle, who was floating near the doors as well, squeak and retreat into the wall. The girls all but tried to repeat the feat, hiding behind Harry.

“Miss Fawley and Miss Chang,” Snape said with deceptive calmness. Harry, who had vast experience with that tone, knew that it would not last long. “You were given clear instructions to stay inside your dormitories. Not only did you blatantly disregard them, you did it by sneaking like common thieves into the crime scene under the cover of the night! You are fortunate this foray didn’t get you killed, but it can still get you expelled. In fact, you can be positive that I will advocate this course of action to the Headmistress.” His voice got louder with each sentence, and by the end of the speech, it was cracking with anger. In the semi-darkness of the ground floor, his black robe faded into the background, and he was looming over the trembling first-years like a vengeful ghost himself. After a dramatic pause, he delivered the final blow, “Fifty points from Gryffindor. Each.”

“This is not fair!”

“The girls are regretting their behaviour,” Harry cut in before Emily could dig an even deeper hole for herself and her friend.

“And they’ll regret it more trying to explain it to Headmistress McGonagall in a few minutes.”

Calliope gulped.

“I don’t think the Headmistress would appreciate being woken up for this,” Harry said placatingly. “Let me take them back to the Tower, and we’ll talk to her in the morning.”

Snape’s eyes were shooting stunners in Harry’s direction now. “You’re forgetting yourself, Mr. Potter. I’m the teacher in this school. You are not.”

The disdain in the voice made Harry’s chest cold, but he stood his ground. “I’m not disputing that. But my main concern here, as, I’m sure, is yours, is the children’s well-being. They will be better off safe in their beds right now.”

Undermining Snape’s authority would not endear Snape to him, and Harry hated spoiling their evening like that, but this exercise in intimidation was rather pointless and ill-timed. Herding the girls to the stairs, he sent Snape a regretful look, trying to convey his sincerity. It got pointedly ignored.

At Snape’s side, the Bloody Baron rasped a hollow sound, as if taking his last dying breaths. Halfway up the stairs, Harry realised that it was a laugh.

“Are we going to be expelled now?” Calliope asked fearfully once they were out of Snape and Baron’s earshot. “I don’t want to leave Hogwarts. Will they call our parents?”

Harry, who knew enough about the girl’s home situation to understand that there was more at stake for her than being afraid of a scolding, put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Callie. I promise you that no one is getting expelled.”

Emily Chang came to his ward once with simple Dragon Pox her parents felt ill-equipped to deal with, being a Squib and a Muggle. Calliope Fawley, on the other hand, was a much more complicated case. Over the course of two years, she came to St. Mungo’s several times with broken bones and concussions, and once with second-degree burns on her face and arm, explained away by her close-mouthed mother as clumsiness. Calliope herself had never disagreed with that explanation but asked once if there was a potion to trigger magic in her. Harry was furious at the implication. His subsequent talk with Lucretia Fawley had gotten him a reprimand from his boss and the knowledge that he could not do much against a reputable pureblood family. It was a great relief to learn that Calliope did get her Hogwarts letter after all. Still, it was telling she was spending her first Christmas as a student here at the castle and not at home. Harry could emphasise with that. Hogwarts had always been his refuge as well.

“What if Sna--Professor Snape was the one who killed Professor Smith?” Calliope asked carefully. “He’s so mean.”

“And he was mad we went to the crime scene!” Emily added.

“He was mad you broke the curfew and endangered your lives needlessly,” Harry said.

“Yeah," said Emily. "He’s too openly mean. In all the mystery stories, it’s never the most obvious suspect.”

“But we are not in a story,” Calliope said. “Besides, your Professor Flitwick theory is a stretch even for fiction.”

“Professor Flitwick?” Harry repeated in disbelief.

Emily shrugged. “Nobody can be so cheerful and patient all the time. Ian still cannot pronounce the levitation charm right, and it’s December! I would snap and kill somebody too after a hundredth LeviosA!”

It’s a pity little Ian did not have his own Hermione to explain the difference, Harry thought with a smile.

They came to the portrait of the Fat Lady who was dozing in her frame, ample bosom heaving. The girls looked at each other in hesitation.

“Kneazle’s tail,” Emily said at last.

The Fat Lady shook herself awake and huffed indignantly. “I told you not to leave, but who ever listens to me? And now you got yourself in trouble. Although this one here was a famous curfew breaker himself.” She wagged her finger at Harry, and the portrait swung open.

“And this time, absolutely no exploring,” Harry admonished as the girls went inside. “I hope that a hundred points are enough to keep you in the Common Room.”

“The others will kill us,” Calliope groaned.

“We’re absolutely fucked,” Harry heard Emily say after the portrait closed behind them.

“Emily! Don’t say such words! Harry Potter might’ve heard you!”

“Nah, there’s no way he can hear us from here,” Emily’s voice came loud and clear through the canvas.

The Fat Lady shook her head in exasperation.

Amused, Harry turned to leave when a silvery cat appeared before him, humping up its back.

“Please join me in my office, Mr. Potter,” it said in McGonagall’s voice, Scottish accent coming more pronounced as it was wont to do when she was particularly annoyed. More than a decade later, and it still made Harry feel like a first-year being scolded.

Was Snape petty enough to go complain to McGonagall about him right away? It made Harry feel oddly disappointed. He was going to clear the air between them in the morning, but it seemed like this evening was not over just yet.

McGonagall did not include the password, so Harry lingered before the gargoyle, half annoyed, half grateful for the chance to collect himself. This was the one place he had been hoping to avoid during his stay at Hogwarts. Too many conflicting emotions and memories were whirling in his head, much like the silvery thread in the stone bowl that had once stood in the heart of the office.

Too soon, the gargoyle leapt away, unprompted, and the spiral staircase brought Harry up. The Headmistress’s version of the office looked spacious and austere, stripped of all the ticking instruments and bizarre devices of its previous occupant. The Pensieve cabinet now displayed an illuminated manuscript opened at an intricate depiction of the stages of human-to rabbit transformation. The throne-like chair was still there, and McGonagall sat on it as it if was the Stone of Scone. Her hair was in a loose braid instead of a severe bun, and her robe was wrapped over a frilly white shirt Harry could never imagine her wearing in the light of day; she was clearly roused from her bed. Snape was there as well, sitting with his legs and arms crossed. He was staring into the fireplace, not sparing Harry even a brief look.

McGonagall motioned Harry to take a seat as well. “As I’ve already explained to Severus,” she said, “I was readying myself to sleep when an alarm went off, notifying me that Gryffindor lost a hundred points. I correctly guessed who took them—”

Snape huffed. “Who else will uphold the discipline at this school?”

“Severus told me it was you who found Miss Fawley and Miss Chang in the Great Hall, Harry. I’d like to know exactly what’s happened.”

“What happened is that the new generation of Gryffindors has even less regard for the rules or sense of self-preservation than their predecessors,” Snape said. “Nothing that could not wait for the morning, Minerva.”

So it was McGonagall who summoned Snape, and not vice versa. Come to think of it, Snape had probably never intended to bring the girls to her right then. Still, Harry did not regret putting a stop to his scare tactics.

“That was pretty much it,” Harry said. “The girls discovered that the murderer had likely hidden behind the Christmas tree.” He explained the decorations briefly.

“So it’s true. The murderer is among us. I didn’t want to believe it, despite what Severus had said to me.”

Snape bridled at that. “And yet you believe two Gryffindor first-years.”

“I thought the worst of you once, and regretted it ever since. I don’t want to repeat that mistake.”

“With me?”

“With anybody present in the castle.”

“Including some anonymous stranger with unclear intentions,” Snape reminded.

“Who was only seen by an intoxicated portrait and David Shaw, a boy who had threatened Zacharias a day before,” said McGonagall.

Harry found it odd that she was still trying to deny the presence of another person in the castle.

“I know your theory about the true target, but it could be a genuine mistake on the poisoner’s part.” She sounded not at all sure of her words, almost guilty voicing them. “Especially if the poisoner did not pay much attention to the seating at the staff table since he himself might not sit at it.”

“That’s a ludicrous assumption about a student with no history of disruptive behaviour outside the Quidditch pitch. I doubt you would accuse him if he was one of your precious lions.”

“I sincerely hope that you’re right. But you and I know young people are capable of many deeds, great and horrible.”

Snape looked conflicted for a moment, and Harry wondered if he was going to bring up using Legilimency on David, but he did not. Instead, he said, “You are wrong. And instead of casting aspersions on David, you should do something about Miss Fawley and Miss Chang. Those two deserve to spend the rest of their holiday in detention, if only to keep them out of trouble.”

“I shall let Alicia deal with them,” McGonagall said in a dismissive tone.

“The last time you did that, Fawley went completely unpunished. The girl is lazy and in need of strict discipline. Both of them are."

"What did she do?" Harry asked.

Both Snape and McGonagall looked at him as if just now remembering he was there.

“A better question to ask would be ‘What does she ever do?’,” Snape said. “The girl is continuously slacking in my classroom. Fawley thinks herself above coming over to the cauldron if she can avoid it, making her crony do all the work. Last time I made her set it up without Chang, and she ran away from the classroom after failing to light the fire under the cauldron for ten minutes. Such histrionics are not to be tolerated."

"You shouldn’t force her to deal with fire,” Harry said sharply.

"Oh? And why is that? A girl you never even met before coming here surely deserves special treatment because—”

“I’ve met her before. She used to be my patient.”

“Fawleys must have fallen over to have such an acclaimed Healer treat their daughter.” Snape now fully reverted to the familiar hostility, a jarring dissonance with their easy banter earlier this evening.

“Not really. In fact, her mother tried to get me fired.”

“So bad at doing your job?” he asked snidely.

"I didn’t want to turn a blind eye at what was clearly happening at Callie’s home."

“What are you implying, Harry?” McGonagall interrupted. “The Fawleys are a good family.”

“And yet, their daughter is spending her Christmas here instead of going home to them.” Harry shook his head. “I’m not discussing my patient’s history. I do hope nothing further happens now that she was proven to be a witch. But if she can’t stand being close to fire, show some understanding and don’t make her relive her trauma.”

“The only way she can overcome it is to face her fears,” Snape said.

“Not in a hostile environment,” Harry countered.

“I’m not going to coddle anybody, no matter their sob story.”

Harry felt his anger rise, although he did not expect anything else from Snape. “This sink-or-swim mentality is rubbish. Do you know anyone whom it helped grow up happy?”

“Happiness is a wilful delusion,” Snape said with a scoff. “The school’s job is not to provide happiness but to drum just enough knowledge into the dunderheads so they don’t kill or starve themselves while pursuing those fickle dreams.”

Harry could not help but think of everything he knew about Snape’s own childhood that had made him into the misanthrope he was today.

“I’ve had a similar discussion with Alicia recently,” McGonagall said thoughtfully, the lines around her eyes deepening. “She said my views were outdated, and the physical well-being of the students is not the only thing we should pay attention to.” She tapped the silver frame on her desk with her wand a few times and turned it for Harry and Snape just as the picture changed to her much younger self, witch’s hat askew, standing between the two men who shared her strong features. “Robert, my brother, was almost eaten by Red Caps playing in the cairns as a child, and to this day maintains that the scariest thing about the whole incident was our Father’s subsequent reaction. Our parents believed in honesty and hard work over happiness. They would see modern-day children as coddled and spoilt. And yet, I look back on my childhood with great fondness.”

Snape was listening to her with somewhat betrayed expression, as if she had not just agreed with him. Perhaps, he wanted her to disagree.

The monitoring mirror pinged in Harry’s pocket, a signal that one of the spells keeping Judith in her magical coma would need renewing soon. He excused himself, feeling torn at leaving the Headmistress office. Nothing disheartened Harry more than lackadaisical attitude of good people. McGonagall and Hogwarts in general were in a position to make the lives of many children better, and he felt that they did not do nearly enough. Or perhaps he expected too much of her, for she was only human. He himself had never expected adults to be there for him and would not welcome attempts to keep him away from danger in the slightest. And yet, the thought of his godson or little Callie being left alone to deal with the world and its cold everyday injustice was not something he could accept and still sleep soundly at night.

Before turning to the door, he glanced at the wall behind McGonagall, sure he caught blue eyes watching him through the half-moon spectacles, but Dumbledore was deep in slumber in his gilded frame.


	9. Chapter 9

The guest bedroom in Madam Pomfrey’s quarters was still dark when Harry woke up. He had hoped that a night of sleep would help him put the crazy events of the day before into perspective, but his mind was abuzz with infinite questions. Hopefully, he would still be able to discuss them with Snape. The man had given Harry a cold shoulder after they left the Headmistress’s office late last night, but while it rankled, Harry felt he was in the right and had nothing to apologise for.

Even before emerging from the heavy duvet, Harry could hear that the storm showed no signs of stopping. The whole night he had been waking up to its ebbs and flows. This meant that once again, he was spending Christmas Eve at Hogwarts. The brooms he had bought for his godchildren—a proper one for Teddy, a toy one with a saddle for Rose and a broom-shaped mobile for baby Hugo—would have to remain unopened for a little bit longer. Now that he reconnected with Oliver, he was suddenly a little more self-aware of how Quidditch-obsessed he would come across. Especially since he got Ron a Chuddley Cannons’ Keeper’s jersey.

Harry’s bare feet shivered even with a thick rug on the floor. Instantly awake, he hit the dying embers in the fireplace with a fresh Incendio, and a shower later, the room was almost fit for the living. He put on his festive mismatched socks, the only present he got himself every year for Christmas, and his old Weasley jumper the house-elves had washed for him during the night. Not much thought usually went into his clothes, but having something else to wear would be nice. He thought about the soft cashmere turtleneck Hermione gifted him last year and considered transfiguring his jumper into something similar. Transfiguration was never his strong suit, however, and it was not worth the risk of ruining the fabric. With the Weasley family expanding and all the new grandkids on the way, Molly did not have the time to knit a jumper for everyone for a couple of years now, so he wanted this one to last.

No magic could tame his hair, but Harry made a valiant attempt, stopping halfway to wonder where the vain thoughts came from. After all, he had not bothered the day before. Not one to lie to himself, he vanished the conjured comb with a sigh. He knew precisely whom he wanted to impress.

On his way to the staffroom, Harry walked past the ever-cheerful Fat Friar, Hufflepuff’s house ghost guarding the doors to the Great Hall. Hopefully, the third time was a charm.

This early, the staffroom was almost empty. Only Professor Babbling was there with a plate of eggs Benedict in front of her, wearing a royal ermine fur robe Harry could not help but stare at for a moment.

“Inside every woman there is a queen, my dear boy. You’d do well to remember that,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“You definitely look the part, Professor,” Harry said with a grin, sitting down and heaping deliciously fluffy eggs and bacon on his own plate as well.

“Do call me Bathsheda.” Babbling looked down at herself and shook her head with a laugh. “I don’t know where the house-elves found this ancient thing, but I’m taking it with me.” At Harry’s questioning look, she explained, “I never stay for the night, so I don’t have any spare clothes here. Warming charms make my skin itch, and I can’t very well ask any woman on the staff: Minerva has a foot over me, Alicia is a century younger and probably poisoned a member of my family, and Sybill’s shawls are all soaked in incense and sherry.”

“I thought all the teachers lived at Hogwarts.” That explained why he had rarely seen her around.

“Ancient Runes is an elective, so I don’t have nearly as many lessons as the core subject teachers. Septima and I come here three days a week,” said Babbling. “I used to have quite a heavy schedule when I was younger, portkeying between Hogsmeade and digs all around the world.”

“Digs?”

“Old tombs and lost cities, ones that goblins hadn’t laid their greedy hands on. Gallivanting with archaeologists and cursebreakers and deciphering old hieroglyphs.”

“You deciphered some new language, right?” Harry wracked his mind, trying to remember Hermione’s gushing about the subject and the teacher from fifteen years ago.

“Minoan language, yes. Two manic summers in the labyrinths of Crete. We had to leave everything and run from Minotaurs three times over the last summer alone. That’s when I decided to focus on lectures and working from my office from then on.”

“My friend, Hermione, was your biggest fan when we were students. Now I see why.”

“She’s a bright one, that girl. Elder Futhark was plain flying for her. Reminds me a bit of Judith, actually,” said Babbling.

The door to the staffroom opened, and McGonagall strode inside, her heels drumming a no-nonsense rhythm. “Is this Queen Anne’s lost robe, Bathsheda?” she asked, amusement crinkling her eyes.

“I have no idea, but I hope not as I’ve had already set my sights on it.”

She took her place at the head of the table. “It can go in place of that pay raise we discussed.”

“Albus would never be such a cheapskate. He was a man of grand gestures.”

“Perhaps. But since I was the one managing the finances and other lowly matters, the outcome would still be the same.”

Babbling made a queenly gesture with her shoulders. “You’re twisting my arm, Minerva. Didn’t Sybill see great misfortune in your teacup that could be avoided by doubling the teachers’ salaries last year?”

“No, it was just her own salary.”

“I’ll have her scry for my doubled paycheck when she comes down for breakfast.”

“Based from what I saw yesterday evening, I doubt she will,” McGonagall scoffed.

“Too much zeal in communicating with the world of spirits?” Babbling asked with a wry smile.

“She was rushing from a suit of armour at the bottom of her tower, convinced somebody was behind it. So I took away the spirits she was communicating with and got her to her room—which was no small feat, mind you.”

“What if she did see someone?” Harry chimed in.

“When Sybill gets like that, she’s not in any state to distinguish between reality and delusions of her inebriated mind. When I got back to her Tower, she rambled that Albus Dumbledore’s ghost haunted her Christmas stocking.” McGonagall pursed her lips in disapproval. “She keeps herself relatively in check when the students are around, but the holidays are always like that.”

“Poor dear,” Babbling shook her head. “Zacharias’s death and waiting for the murderer to jump out from the nearest corner is taking a toll on all of us. Yesterday’s trip to the library to grab my books was a white-knuckle experience,” Babbling said, gesturing to a stack of books at the nearby table.

“I don’t think the perpetrator would still be in the library after all this time,” McGonagall said, busying herself with a teapot. “But you are right, Bathsheda, this is the most trying holiday since 1998.” She turned to Harry. “How’s Miss Shaw faring, Harry?”

He noticed that she had not tried to deny the perpetrator’s existence this time but was quick to change the subject. “I’ll be waking her up from the coma today.”

“That’s great news!” Babbling exclaimed. “I’m sure young David would be beside himself with joy. Will she be up for visitors today? I’d hate the girl to be alone on Christmas Eve.”

“If everything goes well, you can come after lunch.”

“I’ll make her my special Christmas cookies, a family recipe. Some Smiths still know the value of that.”

Just as Harry finished his breakfast and rose to leave the staffroom to Babbling and McGonagall’s bickering, Snape ushered David in. As much as Harry wanted to, he had no opportunity to discuss anything besides giving the boy a heads up about his sister. Snape made a show of being inconvenienced having to escort David to the Hospital Wing, from which Harry assumed he was still sulking. Since Snape promptly refused when Babbling offered to take over the duty, however, he could not be too serious about it.

* * *

On a whim, Harry charmed mistletoe over the door to the office and lit the fairy lights on the small tree on the bedstand at Judith’s cot as he waited for Judith to wake up. A half dozen potions stood lined up there as well, prepared in case of any complications. So far, Harry’s charms had not found anything amiss. He had levitated her gently down onto the cot and dispelled the magical stasis two hours ago, so the steady rising and falling of her chest were the result of natural sleep.

Judith turned her head restlessly from side to side—a sign that her spine was healed correctly—and her rust-coloured eyelashes fluttered open.

She looked at Harry in sluggish confusion. “Harry Potter? What a strange dream.”

“Hello, Judith,” Harry said, putting his hand on her shoulder to prevent her from trying to sit up. “Yes, I’m Harry Potter, your Healer. I’ll be helping you to get better until Madam Pomfrey returns, which might be a few days. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by the Knight Bus.”

“Understandable. Please don’t try to get up for now.”

“Have I missed Transfiguration?”

“It’s the twenty-fourth of December.”

“No way!” Judith’s eyes widened. “What was the spell Roberts used? It hurt so much! Dad always says the transformation is like all of his bones melting, and that’s what it felt like. My father has lycanthropy,” she added, sticking her chin out, a gesture she shared with her brother. As a daughter of a werewolf, she must have faced a lot of prejudice from peers and lousy Uncles, which only seem to make her Hufflepuff loyalty stronger.

Was Teddy, who was going to start Hogwarts next year, destined to be on defensive about his parentage as well? Harry resolved to talk about this with McGonagall after the murderer was found, for whatever good it would do.

He smiled encouragingly to put Judith at ease before nodding. “Yes, I know. My family friend, the father of my godson, was a werewolf. He described it similarly once. It was, in fact, a Bone-Melting Curse.”

“Roberts doesn’t like me much, but I never expected something like that.”

“Judy!” David’s voice loudly demanded from the door. “Why didn’t you say anything about that b—girl bullying you?”

“If you want to stay in the ward, behave,” Harry said in warning. “No shouting and upsetting your sister.”

The boy hurried over, leaving the dark figure of Severus Snape to skulk at the entrance.

"Sorry,” David said, rocking on his heels. “But this Roberts girl is a right actress. Apologising and wailing that she did not know what had come over her until your bestie showed up and set the record straight. You should have told me.”

Judith made a face. “And have you overreact? I can deal with Roberts myself.”

“She almost killed you!”

“I still cannot believe it,” she said with a frown. “Whatever Iris told you, Roberts isn’t really that horrible. She is Ravenclaw’s Queen Bee and above us peons, but her idea of bullying is to make stupid comments about my clothes. Not curses.”

“Did something happen between you two in the lesson?” Harry asked. With Smith’s murder overshadowing everything, the matter would likely be dropped otherwise, so he wanted to set the record straight.

“No, she looked really apologetic before firing the spell. Before the lesson started, she said that she was sorry it had to be this way. I thought she meant her ruining my Charms project.”

“She was sorry it had to be that way?” David repeated incredulously.

“Was there anything else unusual in her behaviour?” Harry asked, on guard now. The situation was definitely weird. What were the odds of two mystery attacks happening in a close succession independently of each other?

“Now that I think about it, yes.” Judith creased her brow again. “Roberts was late to the lesson and couldn’t find her homework until her friend got it from her own bag. She was also really clumsy throughout which is not how she usually is.” Startled, Judith asked, “Do you think she was Confounded? David once was during the Quidditch Match, and he thought the Quaffle was a garden gnome.”

“And I still caught it,” David said, momentarily smug. His expression darkened again. “If this girl was acting weird, Smith is even more to blame.”

Judith looked at him in worry. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble with him because of this?”

David gulped, eyes darting to the dark screen. “N-not really. You see, Judy…” he trailed off.

“I think that’s enough excitement for today,” Harry interrupted. The girl could learn about Smith’s fate later when she regained more of her strength. “Judith needs rest and recuperation right now. You can stay, David, but only if you don’t keep her awake.”

David gave him a grave nod, settling on the chair.

“I’ve only just woke up,” Judith said, eyelids drooping.

“No protests. I’ll be in the office. David, call me if your sister needs anything.” Harry tucked Judith’s blanket in, noting that she was half-asleep again. He turned to where Snape had been standing to find the man already behind his shoulder.

He _really_ wished Snape would stop playing ‘catch the rulebreaker’ with him.

Thinking of much more interesting games they could be playing instead, Harry went to his office. Snape followed, striding inside with more drama than Harry felt was warranted. Barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Harry left the door of the office ajar and cast a Muffliato on it instead. Snape looked oddly at him, and it took Harry a moment to guess why.

“Do you mind me using your spell?” he asked. After a decade, casting it felt as routine as Lumos.

“This one, no,” said Snape. “There wouldn’t be much point in any case; it’s become common knowledge by now. I regularly find students using it to protect their inane conversations against me. I’m blaming you for that fully.”

“I didn’t share it with many people, but useful spells find their way around. Do you still create them?”

“Occasionally.” Snape shrugged noncommittally, leaning against the mantelpiece.

“You have to tell me about them one day.”

“Do I?” He kept Harry’s gaze. “Well then. Perhaps if you visit me in Azkaban.”

“You’re not going to Azkaban.”

“It’s a predictable outcome.”

“Predictable outcome of war would have been us both dying miserably. Yet here we stand. We’ll find out who the real murderer is.” Harry flopped onto Poppy’s chair. “Do you think it’s the same person who cursed Judith?”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“Imperius or Polyjuice?”

“Clumsiness and disorientation can be a by-product of an inexpertly cast Imperius Curse, but I find it much more likely that they were a result of the attacker being unaccustomed to Miss Roberts’s body.”

“Yeah, I remember feeling really awkward when I Polyjuiced into Goyle—” Harry cut himself short.

“Why would you need to transform into Gregory Goyle of all people?”

“Er, long story.”

“The one that involves Boomslang skin from my stores?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Harry willed his flush away. “Anyway, why would anyone do that to Judith?”

“That’s obvious.” Snape took the Hogwarts snow globe from the mantelpiece, studying it instead of looking at Harry. The globe looked much more delicate in his long, potion-stained fingers than in Alicia’s earlier. “The Bone-Melting Curse will not kill you immediately unless you’re very unlucky but requires extensive medical treatment.”

The meaning took a moment to sink in, distracting Harry from staring at Snape’s hands. “So you’re suggesting they did that to bring me into Hogwarts.”

“This is the only reason I see in this situation.”

“But how did they know Madam Pomfrey would call me?”

“Poppy mentioned her granddaughter-in-law having a difficult pregnancy and asking her to deliver the baby over holidays.”

“And we worked together before. She might’ve mentioned that too in the staffroom or something.”

“She did,” Snape admitted with a lemony expression.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised it’s all about me,” Harry said bitterly. He leapt to his feet and looked out of the door to where Judith lay, asleep.

David glanced up at him and beamed, mouthing ‘Thank you’. Harry nodded and gave him the thumbs up, feeling his insides turn to ice with familiar guilt.

“Stop wallowing this instance,” Snape said.

“I’m not wallowing.” Harry sounded sullen even to his own ears.

“You are. Miss Shaw is awake and will recover. Your martyrdom is misplaced and not attractive in the slightest.”

He returned to his chair, both annoyed and grateful to Snape for this attempt to snap him out of his sudden funk, even if it was delivered in Snape’s usual abrasive manner. “I bet the attacker chose her because she’s the daughter of a werewolf. Even if the parents had kicked a fuss and contacted the Aurors, there would have been no investigation.”

“This was certainly a factor, although I’d say animosity between Smith and the Shaws played an equally important role.”

Once again, Harry felt unease at the prospects of his godson, another child of a werewolf, here at Hogwarts. “I had hoped that after all this time things would have improved at Hogwarts.”

“Minerva is attached to the idea of preserving Albus’s vision of the school.” Snape stared at the castle behind the glass dome.

“You don’t agree?”

“It’s as good of a card as any to play against unreasonable demands of the Ministry and the Board, and I shudder to think what would happen if some of the more innovative ideas I’ve heard from my colleagues were to be implemented. But there’s definitely room for improvement.”

“Do you regret not being the Headmaster anymore?”

“What a horrifying thought,” Snape said, aghast. “All the paperwork would succeed where the Dark Lord and generations of brainless students failed and bring me to an early grave. The only good thing about that position would be not having to fight tooth and nail for my ingredient budget every year.” His expression darkened as he put the snow globe back onto the mantelpiece. “Of course, it’s a moot point since no one in their right mind would allow a former Death Eater to occupy this position. Minerva had to deal with enough outcry when I chose to remain as a teacher.”

“So you actually enjoy teaching?” Harry blurted before realising how it must have sounded.

For a man easily offended, however, Snape did not appear to be particularly bothered. “Someone has to do this thankless task.” Weirdly enough, this sounded close to a yes.

Harry always assumed Snape hated his job and had been surprised when he took his old position a decade ago. Perhaps he continued out of habit, seeking normalcy after his spying career had been finally over for good after the war. After all, Snape had spent a better part of his life within these walls. But nothing Snape ever did had a single, straightforward reason.

“And since this is my task, I do not tolerate being disrespected in front of my students,” Snape added with sudden steel in his voice. It seemed he was still mad about yesterday.

“I do respect you, and I might like you now, but I was not going to stand aside while you’re getting carried away scaring those little girls.”

“You might like me now?” Snape repeated incredulously, as if Harry had claimed that the ghosts were solid. Trust him to focus on the very thing Harry was not ready to discuss.

“Well, I thought it was obvious. Trust me, this came as a surprise for me too. Not that...” Damn. Smooth-talking was not his strong suit, but he didn’t have such a case of foot-in-his-mouth since that disastrous date with Cho. Heat rising to his cheeks, Harry decided that it was time to cover up. “Anyway. Don’t you think it’s strange how the Headmistress is so adamant that there’s nobody else in the castle?”

Snape regarded Harry for a long, silent moment, making him feel even more wrong-footed. “Yes,” he said finally. “This surprised me as well.”

A cough from the wall broke the tension Harry did not realise had built between them. Dilys Dervent appeared in her frame and looked between them quizzically before passing McGonagall’s request for Snape to join her in her office. With a nod and an assessing look to Harry, Snape took his leave. Harry stared at his retreating back, wondering which of the two sentiments he had agreed with.


	10. Chapter 10

“That’s a bit morbid, isn’t it,” Babbling muttered to Harry, looking at the screen hiding Smith’s body. “Zacharias’s body being here, next to her.”

“Don’t say anything about that as well, _please_.”

She let it slip to Judith that her Uncle was dead as soon as she came. Harry, who was just about to caution her against doing this very thing, was angry, but his concern turned out to be unfounded. Judith met the news with calm acceptance, more upset that David had not told her right away. The siblings shared a moment of silent communication before Snape, irritable and snappy after his visit to McGonagall, took him away. Harry was dying to know what was said in the Headmistress’s office to work him into such a snit, but with Babbling and the students in the room, it was certainly not the time.

“Mum will be upset,” she said thoughtfully. “They were very close before he went to Hogwarts and she married dad. She told me once she had taught him how to read with Beedle the Bard, and spent every summer holiday on their grandmother’s farm with him when she herself was a student. When the Smiths disowned her, he was still a kid who didn’t understand why his sister wasn’t there for him anymore. And his parents must have set everybody against her. So when he left Hogwarts and Mum tried to reconnect, he shot her down. Dad hates him, but Mum still sends him cards for Christmas. People make all these barriers out of nothing and then spend their whole lives miserable. I’m sure if they had just sat and talked, they would have cleared things up once and for all.”

Hufflepuffs, bless their little black-and-yellow cotton socks. Harry himself had been much more jaded by fifteen. Hell, he had been much more jaded by nine, growing up with an Aunt who took her resentment of her sister out on him. But then, Judith could afford to be magnanimous to a dead man, unless Smith had gone out of his way to be rude to her personally.

“Professor Smith once told me I look more like my mother with each year," Judith continued. Her shapely lips twisted into a bitter expression that looked out of place on her open face. “He said he wished he hadn’t had to face the reminder of Mum’s ‘betrayal’ of the family every time he looked at me.”

Of course, he did. Who would’ve thought?

Babbling huffed. “It’s baloney! Zacharias should never have said that to you.” She put her hand on Judith’s arm. “My husband is a Muggleborn. The only reason my family grudgingly accepted our marriage was because Archie is American and they could pretend he came from an old bloodline. I think they only fully accepted him after half a century of us being together because they started to believe their own lies. Now when Archie reminds them—and he is proud of his heritage, so he does it every time he can—they laugh it off. The Smiths have a long memory but prefer to fill it with wilful delusions.”

“I met my Grandmother when I was nine. Mum asked her to look at me when I turned green and spent the whole week like that, hair and all. She was a bit weird, but maybe that’s because I looked like the Grinch. She’s been sending us Christmas presents ever since then.”

Harry thought about his boss and the whole side of her life that he had no idea about a couple of days ago. Her strange reaction on the occasions when he brought Teddy to work—alternating between feeding him mountains of sweets and coldness combined with snapping at Harry for bringing distractions to the Ward—made more sense now.

“Well, not all of us are like that,” Babbling said, producing a bowl of ginger biscuits in various shapes. “Archie and the family will have to get by without these today, but I still have a family to share my trademark recipe with. Even though we aren’t closely related, you and your brother are always welcome to come to me with anything.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Judith smiled, taking a biscuit.

Babbling offered the bowl to Harry as well, and a robe-clad gingerbread man on top winked at him. Harry grinned at it but took a Christmas tree-shaped one. Wizarding obsession with interactive food was something he would never get.

The biscuit melted in his mouth, sweet and buttery, almost as good as Molly’s. It brought back warm memories of that first fudge he received from the Weasley matriarch for his first Christmas in Hogwarts. He was happy that Judith had family around for Christmas, people that were ready to support and care for her.

Leaving Babbling and Judith to bond in private, Harry decided to stretch his legs and headed out of the Hospital Wing. Would Snape see him as too pushy if he were to visit him now? Harry had decided to chance it later, but he was never the most patient person. Just as he talked himself into venturing to the dungeons, he heard loud voices through the open door of the staffroom.

“Stop conjuring those brooms, Oliver!” Alicia’s voice was loud even on the other side of the corridor. “Those are not Christmas decorations! And I see what you did with the baubles. Transfigure them back this instant!”

The wreath on the door now featured miniature Quaffles, Bludgers and Snitches instead of the House coloured decorations it did before.

“Looks nice,” Harry said, coming inside.

Alicia finished hanging up big red and gold letters spelling ‘Happy Christmas’ over the curtains and came over as well. Her hair, straightened for the last days, was a puffy mess of curls again. “That’s actually a very good Transfiguration, Ollie,” she said, tracing her index finger along the life-like crystal Quaffle.

Oliver puffed up his chest.

“But if you break any, your own Quaffles are on the line.”

Flitwick, who was pushing the walls away to expand the room, chuckled into his beard.

“Should we add some more mistletoe?” Oliver asked.

Alicia looked torn. “I don’t want it to be too cheerful. Less than two days since Zach died, and we’re already partying.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Oliver said with a slightly annoyed note in his voice, as always when Alicia mentioned Smith. “Everybody is so high-strung, and some distraction would do us good. I’m not even suggesting we do drinking games.”

“No games.” Alicia crossed her arms over her chest. “And no trying to do your standup routine. Just an understated dinner.”

“I bet we can ask Snape for _his_ routine,” Oliver said. “That would fit the miserable mood.”

Harry snorted. “Personally, I’d pay big money to watch Snape doing standup.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste.” Oliver shrugged.

“No standup, not from you, and definitely not from Snape,” said Alicia. “I’m still having flashbacks from his speech last year.”

“We still can have _some_ fun, right, Harry?”

Harry was not going to get in the middle of this particular fight. “I’m not sure I’ll be here for long anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Judith alone for the evening.”

“Can she join us for an hour?” Flitwick asked, done with expanding. The walls stopped moving, and the staffroom was now almost twice its usual size. “We don’t usually let the students come to our Christmas party, of course, but under the circumstances, accommodations will be made. Her brother and the girls will be here for the meal and leave before curfew.”

“Then I’ll bring her down for a bit if her condition keeps improving,” Harry said. “Ideally, I’ll need a levitation chair, though.”

“I’ve charmed several for Poppy over the years. Let me look through my storage room or make you a new one.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble. Thank you, Professor,” Harry said. Flitwick had always been one of his favourite teachers for a reason.

“I told you to call me Filius, my boy.”

With that, Flitwick left, bumping into Trelawney in the doorway. She wore a long-suffering expression, fingers massaging her temples under a headscarf adorned with a horseshoe-shaped pin. Without the airy cloud of hair framing her face, her eyes looked even bigger behind the enormous glasses.

“I see I’ve missed lunch,” she said regretfully.

“It’s a pity; the elves had your favourite chickpea curry,” Alicia said. “The Headmistress told us you’re still unwell.”

Harry exchanged glances with Oliver. That must have been one hell of a hungover.

“This night, my soul went too far on the path beyond. But opening your Third Eye around Yule is always wrought with risks, so I accept the consequences.”

“Have you seen anything?” Alicia asked.

“A black raven and a sparrow flying around the castle.”

“Both promise nothing good, do they?” Unlike McGonagall who had asked a similar question before, Alicia seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Trelawney shook her head gravely. “More trials await us.”

“What should we do to avoid them, what’s your Seer advice?” Oliver asked, lounging in the chair Harry remembered to be Trelawney’s.

“You cannot escape fate,” Trelawney said before looking over at the ‘Happy Christmas’ letter garland Alicia had put up earlier. “But putting up a Gryffindor-coloured banner for a party with Severus Snape in attendance is just asking for those trials to multiply.”

“I should’ve thought about that.” Alicia flicked her wand, and the gold letters turned into green.

“Very Christmassy,” Oliver said.

“Although there are more Houses in Hogwarts than just these two, their members are above such petty fights,” Trelawney said, somehow managing to sound both ethereal and peevish. Harry remembered that she was a Ravenclaw. Apparently, even Sybill Trelawney was not above house pride.

“Professor McGonagall mentioned you’ve seen someone behind the suit of armour yesterday?” He doubted she could remember anything, and there was a big chance that it was a figment of her alcohol-soaked imagination, but it never hurt to ask.

Trelawney looked momentarily put-off by the question, most likely realising that the Headmistress must have spared nothing of their encounter. Her cheeks pinked slightly, but she quickly regained her composure. “I was suffering from a terrible migraine at that moment, so the details are a bit hazy. But I remember a figure in all black, definitely a man. His eyes were gleaming from under his hood. He raised his wand at me, and I rushed to escape. Thankfully, Minerva appeared and must have spooked him. I’m sure this was the raven from my dream later that night.”

Alicia and Oliver were looking at her with wide eyes, and Harry realized his blunder. He should have talked to her alone. Then there was at least a chance she would tell him honestly what exactly she remembered without embellishments or whether she remembered anything at all. Now, she was working for the audience.

Trelawney sauntered to the kitchen, leaving a subtle trail of patchouli behind. To the chagrin of his amateur perfumer ex, Harry was not a connoisseur of scents, but this one he knew well. Uncle Vernon had got Aunt Petunia some fancy patchouli perfume for their anniversary once, and she had insisted on wearing ungodly amounts of it, probably because the smell made Harry sneeze. He wondered what she would say if she knew she was sharing the taste in perfumes with a witch like Trelawney, the opposite of everything Aunt Petunia ever stood for.

Oliver whispered something into Alicia’s ear, his arm sneaking around her waist. She turned her head and hissed something under her breath, eyes flaring with annoyance, but did not make much effort to shake him off. Both glanced at Harry, who decided it was his cue to leave as well.

Babbling was still chatting with Judith, so his feet brought him to the ground floor. The Fat Friar was proving to be more reliable than his predecessors, floating in front of the doors of the Great Hall.

“Healer Potter!” he called, proving that the news of Harry’s occupation had reached the ghosts as well. “It seems like just yesterday you were just wee lad anxious to be sorted, and now look at you! So nice of you to help Hogwarts amidst yet another tribulation.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Because the Aurors would be perfectly happy to put the blame on Snape and wash their hands off the case. “Or at least try my best.”

“Kind heart and determination is what one needs to succeed, and I believe you have that.”

“Thank you.” Harry smiled. He liked Nearly-Headless Nick the most, but the jolly Friar was a close second.

“Now, could you perchance do me a favour, young Harry?” the ghost asked.

“Yes?”

“Sir Nicholas is a tad late to relieve me of my duty. Of course, four hours is nothing for an eternal soul, but I still need to prepare to my Midnight Mass and check on the Christmas table before tonight. You attended one of our gorgeous feasts, right?”

“Yes, Sir Nick’s Deathday Party.” That was quite an experience, and one he did not long to repeat.

“Well, in all modesty, most of the organising has been on me since the times of Helga, and this year is not an exception. So while I’m sure Nick will be here any minute now anyway, I’d like to find him and hurry him up.”

“Sure,” Harry said, bemused at the ghost’s active social life. “But I need to be with my patient soon.”

“Naturally, naturally. I myself did my share of healing in my bodily days, so I understand the urgency. I’ll be but a moment!” the Fat Friar said, floating off. His moves were swift and fluid for such a corpulent man, although Harry supposed the dead did not have the fitness problems of the living.

With nothing else to do, Harry went inside to inspect the scene again in the light of day. Now that he looked closer, he did see the difference in the craftsmanship of the goblets. The poisoned goblet was exquisitely ornate in a way that the other ones except the Headmistress’s were not; every snake’s scale and eagle’s feather was intricately carved.

It reminded Harry of a beautiful phoenix-shaped clock that used to crown the mantelpiece in Grimmauld’s drawing-room. It was one of the few things Harry really liked in the house before, so he left it where it was. Unfortunately, as a toddler, Teddy tried to summon the clock with accidental magic and dropped it half-way through. It didn’t break but opened, revealing a secret compartment and a vial of transparent liquid leaking on the floor. Before he could so much as raise his wand, Kreacher had appeared and vanished the clock together with the carpet. Teddy, who had been fascinated with the clock for some reason and attempted to get it multiple times, was heartbroken over its disappearance. Harry had been so angry at Kreacher then. He had thought the house-elf just wanted to get rid of Sirius’s chosen decoration that was sure to offend his old Mistress’s sensibilities, and was surprised that Kreacher would not spare even the carpet he had previously fought tooth and nail for. Now, with a sinking feeling, Harry realised that it was probably another bottle of _Gertrude’s Kiss_ that Dumbledore had given Sirius.

Ire at his godfather and Dumbledore’s negligence flared in him. Of course, Sirius would not have carried a poison that Snape had brewed on him, had the Headmaster not known him at all? If Sirius had to go, he would never have given Snape the satisfaction of knowing it was at his hand. No, Sirius left it just lying around, and Teddy could have easily died.

Harry took a deep breath. It was no use getting mad at the dead. Teddy was safe and sound, probably helping Andromeda with their Christmas dinner right now. He vowed to set up more TV channels so Kreacher could indulge in his favourite ‘dirty muggles’ soap operas’, because the elf still despised being thanked.

There was a small door behind the staff table, the one that led to a small chamber where he had been once ushered together with all the Triwizard champions after the Goblet of Fire spat out his name. Another cursed goblet, Harry thought bitterly.

Curious, he pushed the door open and went inside. Nothing has changed since his fourth year except for the light snoring coming from the portrait on the wall. Violet, the Fat Lady’s best friend and companion, was leaning against the frame, fast asleep, her wide-brim hat askew.

Harry’s throat suddenly felt dry. Hadn’t the other portraits mentioned that Violet had left after Snape’s ancestor and could have seen something? And even if not, she could have easily heard what was happening in the Great Hall through the door.

“Violet?” Harry prompted. When she groaned but did not wake up, he knocked on the frame.

“Pass!” she mumbled. “I’m passing this round.”

“Violet!”

“Hm?” Violet jumped up, eyes flying open. She looked at Harry groggily. “Oh, right, the bridge game is over already. Hello, Harry.”

“Hullo, Violet. Have you been asleep since the bridge night?”

She frowned. “I think so. Is Prince asking for another round to win back her garters? I’m holding on to those.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. The portraits’ bridge night was apparently more exciting than Harry imagined it to be. “Well, maybe she does, I don’t really know. I wanted to ask if you heard anything in the Great Hall when you returned.”

“Nothing more than some ranting, why?”

“Ranting?”

“There was a male voice going on about... Well, you, actually.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about Saint Potter always being fawned over and getting everything on a silver platter.” Violet rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Harry.”

“It’s nothing. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Well, people shouldn’t disparage you,” Violet said fiercely. “For what it’s worth, it must have been Smith. Filius has a higher voice and would never say those nasty things, while Severus’s voice is lower, and he would’ve been much more eloquent in his insults.”

“Was there anybody else?”

“No, I didn’t hear anybody else. He sounded drunk, though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he was alone.” Violet leaned forward, ready to share a juicy gossip. “Do you know that he broke our Alicia’s heart?”

“Yeah.”

She looked mildly disappointed that she didn’t get to tell him it. “He showed his real face then, and now probably drowned his regrets in a bottle after she moved on to a much better choice. Not that I’m bad-mouthing Hogwarts Professors to everybody,” she added hastily. “The school has a reputation to uphold. But you are a special case, aren’t you, Harry? I’m just telling you this so the next time the duplicitous badger turns his snout at you, you know exactly what kind of a person he really is.”

“Thank you, Violet. Say, have you seen anybody on your way here?”

“Yes, the Headmistress was going upstairs with some man. He looked really familiar, but I couldn’t place the face.”

“McGonagall?” Harry gaped at her. This was one name he did not expect to hear.

“Well, we only have one Headmistress.”

He slumped onto one of the chairs standing in disarray around the room. He wanted to believe it was somebody under Polyjuice, but McGonagall’s behaviour proved the opposite. Why would she be so insistent that there was nobody in the castle? “Fuck.”

“What happened?” Violet asked, searching his face.

Harry stood back up. “Zacharias Smith was poisoned,” he said curtly.

Violet gasped, as one would upon encountering a surprising twist in a book: shocked but eager to know more. She started to ask for details, but Harry was already marching out of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear readers!
> 
> I know I made you wait for far too long, and I'm very sorry about this and for not answering your comments for the last chapter, each and every one of which makes me so happy. Thank you all for waiting patiently and coming back for this new chapter, hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> Special thanks to my great friend and beta Sadsnail for your unwavering support.

Nearly-Headless Nick greeted Harry with a jaunty tilt of his loose head as he floated to the doors of the Great Hall. Any other time, Harry would be amused at the familiar gory antics, but now he barely nodded in reply.

Too soon, he was looking over the Transfiguration Courtyard, completely unrecognisable under the thick blanket of snow. The gargoyle guarding the Headmistress’s Tower was just around the corner from the nook he stood in, but Harry found himself stalling for time. The walls of the castle suddenly felt stifling, as they never had before. McGonagall, the person that always remained the rock of the school, its one constant, could have been trying to poison him or at least actively covered up for the actual murderer. His stomach turned at the thought. Harry experienced many a betrayal in these well-trodden halls, but the possibility of this particular one just made him feel as old as Hogwarts herself. He dreaded confronting the Headmistress, but at the same time, the urgency to do so drummed in his ears as a discordant marching tune.

A no-nonsense click-clack of heels against the stone announced McGonagall herself. She appeared deep in thought, a frown marring her brow. Her moss-green robe and her hair, rolled at her nape instead of being gathered in a bun, were the only concession to the holiday Harry had ever seen her do.

Just as Harry was about to reveal himself, a strange flickering moved and shifted in the air behind McGonagall. The colours and textures from the tapestry on the wall bled forward to outline a vague figure that now followed her in jerky movements.

“Headmistress, watch out!” he shouted, bursting out of his nook in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy, already raising his wand.

McGonagall flailed, looking around. Harry sent a shield around her, and an angry purple hex ricocheted off it, hitting the suit of armour beside her squarely in the visor instead. It snapped shut with a loud click. As if in slow motion, the six-foot-tall statue swayed and tipped over right on the Headmistress. Harry’s shield was effective against magic but did nothing to stop the mountain of metal from crushing her with a hollow clangour.

“Minerva!” A man in a jolly reindeer jumper ran from the corner, shouting McGonagall’s name over and over. He looked somewhat familiar, but Harry couldn’t place the slender figure and furious long face anywhere. “What have you done to her, you bastard?!” he shouted at Harry.

Apparently, there was high competition for the role of The Stranger Slinking in the Shadows. This must have been the man David had seen, which begged the question of who was attacking McGonagall right now.

Distracted by the new arrival, Harry had lost the disillusioned figure. He looked around, tuning out the shouts of the newcomer. Had the attacker escaped the scene, or were they still around? A well-casted Disillusionment Charm was almost impossible to detect if the person did not move.

“ _Infantem Pulveris_!” Harry cast the first spell that came to his mind, sending an overpowered jet of white powder down the corridor. Covering everything in a ten feet radius, it outlined a hooded figure at its outer limits, crouched against the wall.

“Stupefy!” The newcomer shouted as Harry raised his wand to shoot his own Stunner.

Harry dodged the spell, but the disillusioned figure had already cast off most of the powder from them. Thankfully, his steps were clearly visible on the now-white floor, despite their owner having taken pains to silence them.

Only now noticing the actual attacker, the man in the jumper floundered. Just then, McGonagall moaned from under the suit of armour, and he rushed to her, sending the heap of metal with a wave of his wand towards the disillusioned figure.

This was a solid attempt, more due to chance considering that the man did not even aim properly, his attention fully on McGonagall. But in the end, all it did was prevent Harry himself from aiming as the attacker narrowly escaped the suit of armour and ducked behind a tapestry.

Harry sprinted to follow, dimly recognising the secret passage to the Owlery from the image of a snake swallowing its own tail, the one that he had never used due to its uncomfortable proximity to the Headmaster’s Office.

“Help her!” the man called behind him.

Harry looked back to see McGonagall unconscious on the floor, a patch of blood congealing in her hair. He swore loudly, but the decision had already been made. He was a Healer first.

Ignoring the man’s indignant yelp, Harry disarmed him and stuck his trousers and dragonhide boots to the floor where he was sitting with McGonagall’s head on his lap. After another moment of thought, he conjured ropes to tie the man’s wrists together. “You, at least, aren’t going anywhere.”

“I wasn’t going to.” The man bared his slightly overlarge teeth.

“And don’t you try anything funny with the Headmistress.”

“I would never harm Minerva,” the man said, awkwardly stroking her forehead with both hands. He coughed as he inhaled some of the powder falling from his hair and gave Harry a weird look.

Harry ran a set of diagnostic charms over her and breathed a sigh in relief. Concussion and a sprained ankle. The former was not be trifled with at McGonagall’s age. Magical medicine could mend bones and heal wounds in a blink of an eye but had not come much further than its Muggle counterpart in treating brain damage. Thankfully, no contusion could be found on his scan, so it was nothing he could not treat here in Hogwarts. He conjured a stretcher and carefully levitated her onto it.

The man watched her in worry. “How is she?”

“She’ll be fine,” Harry said after a moment of considering whether he wanted to tell him anything at all. “I need to get her to the Hospital Wing first, but then we are going to have a long talk.”

“I’m not the one who murdered Zacharias Smith.”

“You’re really expecting me to believe this?” Harry asked, although with the invisible attacker, this statement did not look as impossible as it would have just fifteen minutes ago.

“Please, I’ll explain everything, but first you need to make sure Minerva is alright.”

Harry unstuck the man from the floor and considered his options. He did not want him to bolt as he levitated the stretcher.

The solution provided itself.

“What’s going on?” Snape appeared at the end of the corridor, black robe billowing behind. “The portraits reported shouting—Minerva?”

“Don’t come closer!” The man shouted, his voice rising high. “Portraits, a likely tale... You might be the one who attacked her!”

“You aren’t in a position to throw accusation here, mate,” Harry said, moving towards the stairs. He turned to Snape. “Can you keep an eye on him for me?”

“Grubbly-Plank?” Snape asked incredulously.

That’s who the man reminded him of, Harry realised, the teacher substituting Hagrid in their fifth year, one that healed Hedwig once. “Are you related to Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank?”

“I go by Wilhelm Grubbly now,” the man said curtly, walking beside Harry at a brisk pace and doing his best to ignore the tip of Snape’s wand poking him between the shoulderblades.

Well, Harry had not expected that. Transitioning to another gender was easier accomplished with magic than muggle means, but it was still rare in the rather conservative wizarding society.

On their short walk to the Hospital Wing, Harry briefed Snape on the attack, watching Grubbly suspiciously from the corner of his eye. It was possible that he and attacker were in on it together, but Grubbly’s concern over Minerva looked genuine. That did not mean that he could not have been the one to poison Smith, of course.

Babbling jumped up from her seat at Judith’s side as they entered the Hospital Wing, the book she was reading falling on the floor. “What’s—Who—”

Her exclamation woke up Judith, who turned her head and watched with bleary eyes as Harry carefully levitated McGonagall onto the cot farthest from her and conjured the curtains around it.

Sharing a silent exchange with Snape, Harry drew the curtains behind himself to run deeper diagnostics and spell the potions into the Headmistress. He removed one of her shoes and spelled her old-fashioned stocking to peel off from under her green robe to heal her ankle properly. He was mildly uncomfortable to do this to the Headmistress, who was an untouchable presence in his life since he had been eleven years old. Routine part of his job or not, but this was the most embarrassed he felt since Hermione sent a flock of woodpeckers after every Mediwitch and the Healer in the last stage of her labour, and Harry ended up being the one to actually deliver baby Rose.

“So what do you have to say for yourself?” Snape asked Grubbly on the other side of the curtains.

“Minerva wished for me to reveal myself, but I didn’t want her name dragged through the mud should it come out I was here. I’m in the middle of extremely complicated divorce proceedings, so believe me, it would. She doesn’t need that kind of attention, especially as the Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

“I can make... my own decisions, Will,” McGonagall said, her eyes fluttering open.

Grubbly rushed through the curtains but stopped halfway as Snape forced him to back out. Harry sighed in relief, glad he could finish his check up and administer her potions without the distraction. With half an ear, he listened to Babbling calming down Judith in between peppering Snape with her own insistent questions.

As soon as Harry announced he was done, Grubbly was at McGonagall’s side with her hand in his, still bound. “How do you feel?”

“As if I’ve been squashed by a seven-foot-tall suit of armour.” She gave him a wan smile. “Did they tie you up? That’s not—”

“Don’t worry about that, love,” he said reassuringly, sitting down on the edge of the cot. “I can see their point, but we’ll clear this misunderstanding.”

Snape, who settled close by, scoffed. He flicked his wand in Grubbly’s direction, inciting a wince that made Harry think Snape hexed him at first. The spell turned out to be a simple Muffliato enclosing them all in a privacy bubble, but the distrustful glares the men exchanged served to increase tension tenfold just as well. Harry drew the curtains again, but not before Babbling flitted her way inside them, looking surprised at Grubbly’s display of affection.

Healer instincts to throw all the visitors out of the ward warred in Harry with the desire to know the truth. “Let’s keep it short and to the point, because the Headmistress needs rest,” he said finally.

“I went to find you, Severus, to apologise for my harsh words,” McGonagall said, looking Snape in the eyes. “As soon as you left, I realised how unfair I’d been.”

Snape gave her a curt nod. It was hard to say what he was thinking as he stared somewhere over her shoulder.

“Maybe—” Grubbly started, but McGonagall cut him off, “No, Will. It wasn’t Severus. I trust him.”

“The attacker was disillusioned. How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said in a final tone.

Next to him Snape ground his teeth.

Grubbly sighed but did not argue further. “I didn’t see the attacker right away and thought it was Potter.” He looked at Harry apologetically. “I’m sorry. If not for me, you would’ve caught the bastard.”

“I would,” said Harry.

“Thank you both for protecting me,” McGonagall said in an obvious attempt to appease them. Her hand still rested in Grubbly’s.

Harry wished he could give them privacy, but there was an important matter to clarify first. And what’s a better way to learn the truth if not by catching a person unaware? “Why were both of you downstairs at the time of Smith’s murder?”

Snape gave him a sharp, assessing look just as both McGonagall and Grubbly gasped.

“Minerva? Wilhelmina?” Babbling looked between them searchingly. “Did you kill Zacharias? But why?”

“We didn’t have anything to do with it, Bathsheda,” said Grubbly. “And please call me Wilhelm from now on.”

“How do you know we were there, Harry?” McGonagall asked, attempting to keep her voice steady even though the monitoring harms, still active, showed Harry her madly racing pulse.

“Does it matter, Minerva?” Snape raised his eyebrows.

“I was trying to leave—an impulsive decision on my part—but Minerva stopped me.” Grubbly looked at her apologetically. “We had a... conversation in front of the Great Hall but did not go inside.”

Harry remembered Filch’s words about the argument at the front door. That must have been the ‘conversation’ the caretaker had heard.

“I saw the light behind the half-opened door but did not follow up,” McGonagall said, voice full of remorse. “No student would be so audacious, so I figured it was someone from the staff or you, Harry.”

“You said that the poison worked instantly, right?” Grubbly looked at Snape questioningly. “Nothing could have been done at that point.”

“I did say that, yes. Privately to Minerva.” The faint sneer on Snape’s face hid a wary expression. Harry supposed he had reasons to be concerned how much of what had been said between them Grubbly knew as well.

“I trust Wilhelm as I would myself,” said McGonagall. “He won’t betray my confidence.”

“Admirable trait, but maybe not the most helpful in parsing the truth in this situation,” said Snape.

“What do you mean by that, Snape?” asked Grubbly.

“Did you both go downstairs at the same time?” Harry interrupted.

“Yes,” said McGonagall.

Snape stepped closer to loom over Grubbly. “Our esteemed caretaker—who keeps meticulous records, I must note—heard the first steps before Smith appeared. Only one person went down at the time of your... conversation, and then you both went upstairs. Am I right, Potter?”

Harry nodded. “The portrait that noticed you said you were alone, Grubbly.”

“I was in my feline form on my way down,” said McGonagall.

“Why?” Babbling asked, sinking into a chair she had conjured for herself—red plush, befitting the ermine fur robe she was still wearing.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I can move much faster in it,” she said finally.

Grubbly looked remorseful at having her chase after him throughout the castle. Harry shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. Such a private and proud person as the Headmistress could not be happy airing her personal life with all and sundry. Never mind that a thirteen-year-old in him was still somewhat astonished at the thought of his old teacher having a personal life at all, and such a turbulent one at that.

“But you realise how it looks, Minerva, don’t you?” Babbling said. “I cannot fathom why you would do that, and that’s the only reason I’m giving you both the benefit of the doubt.”

“Not to mention that you suspected me with much less tangible evidence,” said Snape.

“And I apologised for that lapse in judgement. Neither of us poisoned Zacharias; the very idea is preposterous,” said McGonagall. She glanced at Grubbly. “I have nothing to hide, and will gladly take Veritaserum to prove it.”

Grubbly was visibly opposed to the idea. “You aren’t in any shape to do that, love. And I’m sorry, Snape, I want to believe that you’re innocent, I really do, but I’m not taking any potions from you.”

“Veritaserum is out of question at least for a week for you, Headmistress,” Harry shook his head regretfully. That would be a perfect decision, but he suspected the response of the other residents in the castle would be the same.

“Then look into my memories, Severus,” McGonagall said.

Grubbly was even more displeased with that offer, even though this time, he refrained from saying anything.

Snape raised his wand and McGonagall’s expression shattered a little; she must have expected him to trust her implicitly. Well, she should have a taste of her own medicine, Harry thought uncharitably, offended on Snape’s behalf.

“Legilimens!” Snape said, and for the next five minutes, nothing more exciting than heavy staring was happening, both between them and Grubbly, who fastened his gaze on McGonagall.

“Just like deciphering dead languages, the Mind Arts seem much more exciting in theory than they are in practice,” Babbling commented. “Although I’m sure Minerva’s mind is much more orderly than even Elder Futhark.”

Finally, Snape broke the connection. “Your memories support your words,” he said stiffly. “I focused strictly on yesterday morning and the altercation earlier and endeavoured to avoid unrelated thoughts and memories as much as possible.”

McGonagall sank back into the pillow, looking frailer than Harry had ever seen her. “Thank you, Severus.”

Harry berated himself for letting the situation get to this. He would never have allowed another patient go through this kind of interrogation if the doubt about her had not wormed its way into his head. “That’s enough for now,” he said, finally herding everybody out and closing the curtains. “The Headmistress needs to rest.”

For a moment, McGonagall closed her eyes, lines and shadows stark around them. Harry tried to come up with reassurances, but they all sounded hollow in his head. He was good at putting his little patients at ease, but what could he say to Minerva McGonagall, the Colossus of his own childhood?

As if reading his thought, she looked at him, her usual no-nonsense self again. “I’ll be fine, Harry. We’ve been through much worse, haven’t we?”

Under Snape’s disapproving stare, Harry unbound Grubbly’s hands and returned him his wand. Grubbly massaged his wrists circled with angry red, but Harry refused to feel guilty. What was he supposed to think? He did pretend to not notice when Grubbly slipped back to McGonagall, but that was all the apology the man could expect.

“I should have considered Grubbly-Plank from the start,” Snape said after they wound up in Poppy’s office again.

“Did you know about his transition?” Harry asked.

“No, but it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. He used to order the temporary gender change potion from me since before the war. Most people don’t feel the need to experiment with it more than once or twice, especially considering the cost and complicated brewing process required for an hour of transformation.” Snape reached out to Harry, and for one mad moment, Harry thought he was going to take him by the hand, but Snape just swiped the dusting of powder on his sleeve and put it to his nose. “What is this substance you covered the entire corridor with?”

Hurry felt his ears warming up. “Baby powder.”

“Baby powder.”

“What? I’m working in the Paediatrics Ward and have three godchildren I’ve babysat. This is a spell I use a lot, and I had to act fast.”

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched. “I hope you don’t produce a hundred pounds every time.”

“Hermione would not be amused.” Harry grinned. “It did its job, and I almost caught the invisible wanker.”

“I should go check the Owlery for any traces of the perpetrator. Good thinking, Potter.”

As he saw Snape off on his way, Harry tried and failed to bite back the beaming smile. Had Snape just really praised him?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back on track with my writing schedule, yay :) Thank you for all your comments and support!

Rather predictably, the Owlery did not provide any answers: as Snape’s incongruously dainty Patronus informed Harry, the attacker must have clued in and vanished the remainder of the powder from themselves halfway down the stairs. On a whim, Harry reached to pet the silvery doe. It regarded him with big distrustful eyes for a moment before vanishing into thin air. Once again, Harry wondered if he was a fool to be interested in a man whose dislike of all things Potter had started a decade before Harry was even born.

His thoughts soured even more as they turned to the murderer. They were no closer to finding who poisoned Smith than they had been before. Nobody showed him open antipathy so far, but then again, the murder wouldn’t risk it, right? Harry resolved to pay closer attention at the dinner. Who knew, maybe the tension and wine would loosen some tongues.

At dinner time, Flitwick brought the flying chair. Surprised by Grubbly in the doorway of the Hospital Wing, he dropped it at once and hit the man with an Incarcerous, McGonagall’s warning not to attack coming a second too late. His cheerful disposition made it easy to forget that the diminutive Charms Professor was once a duelling champion.

“Is anyone else going to tie me up today? What’s one more,” Grubbly muttered, and McGonagall looked at him speculatively.

Judith watched the altercation with wide eyes, obviously surprised at this side of her teachers. It took some effort to convince her to use the chair instead of stubbornly trying to get up, but soon Harry was walking behind her into the Christmas dinner. She seemed to be the only one eager for it, having shyly asked to bring a dress robe from the dormitories that Babbling had helped to get her into over her hospital gown.

Harry himself would much prefer to have a private celebration with Snape than another installment of tense sniping, and was momentarily lost in a daydream as to what such celebration might entail on the short way to the staffroom.

“Judy!” David ran to his sister only to stop at the sight of Grubbly supporting McGonagall. If Judith was obstinate about the chair, she had nothing on the Headmistress, who had rejected all Harry’s attempts at reason outright, insisting that the absence of the captain was detrimental to the morale of the crew. She had never missed a Christmas dinner all her years of working in the school, she said, and was not going to start now.

It was obvious from everybody’s curious but not at all surprised expressions that Babbling had gone ahead and shared the news. Harry was both relieved and peeved; this saved them a commotion his patients certainly did not need, but at the same time, he missed the reactions that could have betrayed the culprit. He silently berated himself for turning his full attention to Snape as soon as the situation with the Headmistress resolved and not asking Babbling to keep her counsel; she was obviously not one to hold on to fresh gossip for long.

The elves outdid themselves with the Christmas dinner with a tender and succulent turkey stuffed with apricots and hazelnuts as the centrepiece of the table, but the atmosphere in the staffroom was far from festive. Flitwick followed Grubbly’s every move with his eyes, and Alicia stared at McGonagall with undisguised suspicion. By an unspoken agreement, nobody questioned the pair further, but the unease was palpable in the air. If the stranger in the castle wasn’t the murderer, then who was?

Trelawney broke the tense silence. “Remember I saw a man in your teacup, Wilhelmina?” She had made an effort to dress up for the evening, shedding her numerous shawls and donning a long multicoloured dress with swirling patterns that would not look out of place in a hippie commune.

“Wilhelm,” Grubbly corrected through his teeth for the umpteenth time.

Calliope and Emily were watching the exchange curiously, visibly struggling to make sense of either of them.

“You can see what happens just by looking into a cup?” Callie asked, picking at the frills on her formal robes that made her sit straighter and stiller than usual.

Trelawney adjusted her glasses. “Everyone can see that, dear child. But precious few are able to interpret the signals that Fate sends us.”

“That’s really deep,” said Emily. Unlike her friend, she wore a comfortable-looking muggle dress with a cartoon character. Harry was happy the newer generation could express their Muggle interests freely. Dean had got so much flack for loving football even in their relatively open-minded Gryffindor dorms, and for all Hermione had never been anything less than proud of being Muggleborn, she had eschewed any real connection to Muggle culture early on, focusing on the wonders of magic.

Trelawney nodded, and answered Snape’s undisguised snort of derision with a brief glare. By now, Harry was used to seeing the two expressing their distaste for each other, but its venomous intensity still surprised him coming from the usually ethereal Divination Professor.

Looking intrigued, Emily asked, “So can you tell who—”

“You own a gerbil, don’t you?” Trelawney interrupted her. “Be careful, it may face mortal danger very soon.”

Emily patted her oversized pocket with a panicked expression on her face just as Oliver shot a stunner at the bowl of cranberry sauce nearest to him with an unmanly shriek. It spilled onto the tablecloth, and something small scurried across the table.

“Don’t hurt him!” Emily shouted when Oliver raised his wand for the second time.

Snape caught the sandy-coloured rodent as it ran past him.

Everybody’s eyes turned to him as he lifted the gerbil on his palm. It sniffed around, whiskers twitching, before sitting still and looking up at Snape benignly. If one still needed any further proof that it was not an animagus, there it was. No person, no matter how deeply lost in the animal’s mind, would be this serene when faced with the angry Potions Master.

Emily froze on her seat, fearful eyes trained on her pet. “S-sorry!” she stammered. “I just couldn’t leave Gilbert all alone in the Tower for Christmas!”

Filch, who was sitting on the other side of Oliver, murmured something about mannerless brats and looked at Snape in an obsequious way, clearly expecting him to berate the girl. Harry—along with everybody at the table, he was sure—braced himself for an explosion.

Which did not follow.

“Keep better track of your pet, Miss Chang,” Snape said instead, offering the gerbil back to Emily, who rushed to his side. As soon as Snape put it into her arms, she nestled it close to her chest.

“Thank you, Professor!” she beamed, letting Gilbert disappear into her pocket.

Apparently, Christmas still was a time for miracles. Harry turned to Snape with a grin.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face.” Snape’s hiss could decently pass as Parseltongue, making Harry’s grin widen even more.

Babbling waved her wand to turn on the radio. After a few minutes of white noise and more wandwork from Flitwick, where he tuned into some Spanish station and what sounded like throat singing in Gobbledegook, the voice of Lee Jordan filled the room.

_“Santa will have trouble getting to Hogsmeade and Hogwarts tonight. Scotland is still caught in the worst magical storm since that time Aberforth’s experiment with homebrew in Hog’s Head went horribly wrong, but if you are there and listening to our Christmas show right now, we have a special surprise for you...”_

“With any luck, this is a sign that the storm will abate soon,” said Alicia. “I didn’t manage to get any reception on the wireless this morning.”

“The murderer must be thinking they don’t have much time too, attacking Professor McGonagall like that,” said Oliver, emphasising his words with a wave of his fork.

“Time for what,” Snape asked. “Please share your insights into the psyche of our murderer, Wood.”

“Let’s leave this to the Aurors and the press,” Alicia interjected.

Harry looked around the table, trying to gauge the reactions. Both Oliver and Grubbly winced at Alicia’s remark, but that could well be in response to mentioning the press specifically. Nobody else seemed fazed by the topic that had become a staple of their dinner conversations by now. Flitwick seemed more interested in the ham on his plate, and Trelawney was on her second glass of red already, scrutinising it she would her teacup, perhaps to test the ‘truth in the wine’ theory. It was remarkable how fast even the most extraordinary circumstances became mundane. Only Judith was watching everybody with wide eyes. This must have been a hell of a lot to wake up to.

On the wireless, Ludo Bagman was trying and failing miserably to sing _Accio Christmas_ by Celestina Warbeck, a WWN’s number one this week.

“This is horrible.” David winced as he hit a high note.

“The poor dear is trying his best,” said Babbling, eager to change the subject of conversation. “It’s a charity record, after all. He’s raising money for a worthy cause.”

“The goblins tried to break into the studio while he was recording,” Oliver said between mouthfuls of roast potatoes. “The poor sod still owes them gold.”

Harry snorted. “At least we know now which worthy cause he’s raising money for.” He had zero sympathy for Bagman after the man swindled the Weasley twins in his fourth year and made his experience with the Triwizard Tournament so much more exhausting.

“You also sang a Christmas charity song some years ago, didn’t you, Oliver?” asked Flitwick.

“Five years, to be precise, but they still put it on occasionally.” Oliver puffed his chest and sent a non-too-subtle sideways glance at Alicia.

“The wireless approached me to do the recording once or twice since I became the Headmistress,” McGonagall confessed.

“You should have,” said Grubbly. “You have a lovely voice.”

“The school’s need for extra funding would have to be truly dire before I agreed to something like that. Hogwarts has a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh, come on, Minerva, live a little!” Babbling said from the other side of the Headmistress, offering her a Christmas cracker. “Remember our Sybil’s appearance on the Christmas show last year? Even that, everybody forgot by Valentine’s. One little song won’t ruin your reputation.” She turned to Trelawney, who was looking rather lemony. “No offence, dear.”

Harry, who had spent the last Christmas dealing with the nastiest magical stomach flu outbreak in his memory, with hardly a minute to take a piss let alone listen to radio shows, looked over at Snape questioningly.

“They asked her over for some fortune cookie predictions for the next year, but Sybil managed to fail even at that simplest task by showing up drunk as a newt and rambling some nonsense instead,” Snape explained under his breath, but not low enough for Trelawney, sitting across the table from Harry, not to hear him.

“Oh, I remember it,” Oliver said with a laugh. “Didn’t you diagnose black holes in Jordan’s chakra that day?

“And he still has them,” Trelawney said through her teeth, shifting her glare from Snape to him.

“That was some show.” McGonagall pursed her lips briefly before pulling at the other side of the proffered cracker. In a shower of confetti disappearing just before landing on the plates, a golden paper crown popped up, which she handed over to Babbling to go with her robe.

Alicia and Oliver joined in, and Harry was gratified to see a happy look on Judith’s face as she and her brother pulled their own cracker. Snape sent Harry a warning glare lest he tried to offer him one, and the glass of wine he had already drunk prompted Harry to answer with a wink and reach for it anyway. Before he could take it, however, Trelawney leapt to her feet, wand out.

“Riddikulus!” she yelped, pointing it at a deck of tarot cards and Christmas-themed woollen socks that popped out of her and Flitwick’s cracker. When nothing happened, she looked around sheepishly and sat back down.

Flitwick sighed, pocketing the socks and vanishing the deck, but not before he had moved the more than half empty pitcher of wine further from her reach.

“Please excuse me,” Trelawney said in a wobbly voice. “Nerves.”

Oliver harrumphed.

“Didn’t you just try to shoot that poor rodent?” Grubbly asked him snidely.

Flitwick tried to defuse the situation. “We are all understandably stressed out.”

The thin veneer of Christmas cheer evaporated again, and everybody returned to their meal to listen in silence to the upbeat voice of Lee Jordan goofing on the wireless. When a Christmas pudding popped out of nowhere in the centre of the table in its flaming glory, Harry instinctively reached for his wand. It appeared he wasn’t spared from the general feeling of paranoia in the room, but to his relief, nobody seemed to notice.

Or maybe somebody did. Under the table, Snape’s knee bumped his own and lingered, touching him a moment longer than necessary. For a second, Harry forgot how to breathe. Was it an accident? No, he knew very well that nothing was ever accidental with this man. The gesture certainly managed to settle Harry’s nerves, but if Snape simply wanted to calm him down, it was a surprisingly new development where before he would have opted for a mocking comment instead. Not one to second-guess for long, Harry experimentally nudged Snape’s foot with his own in thanks.

Their silent back and forth certainly made the rest of the dinner more bearable, giving Harry strength to sit through Alicia’s speech as she raised her glass in memory of Smith. The students were talking between themselves in an undertone, and when Gilbert the gerbil made his appearance for the second time in Emily’s hands, McGonagall raised unsteadily from the table.

“Don’t end the evening just yet on my account,” she said. “I hope you won’t be keeping me overnight in the Hospital Wing, Harry?”

Harry would indeed prefer to do that, but it was Christmas, after all. “No, but I’ll need to check up on you in the morning, Headmistress. Get me if you feel worse, though.”

Despite McGonagall’s words, as soon as she left, leaning on Grubbly, everybody rushed to finish the meal. Both Flitwick and Babbling volunteered to accompany Alicia and the girls, claiming strength in numbers, and doubled down on that after Oliver’s vehement protests that he could protect them well enough himself. Alicia took deep fortifying breaths. Her expression reminded Harry of the seconds before she took a Beaters Bat from George and chased Oliver around the pitch sending Bludgers at him in Harry’s second year. Only the presence of her students and colleagues seemed to keep her from snapping this time.

“Are you in need of a companion to walk you up your tower as well, Sybil?” Snape asked Trelawney with a mocking bow. “It is rather far from here, after all, and who knows what horrors you might divine in the shadows. The school cannot risk our prophetess to lose her mind to another sock waiting in a random corner of the castle.”

She sent him a look full of loathing and rose from the table. “I’d hate to ask a dungeon dweller like you to leave his realm, considering what happened the last time you found yourself in a tower. The school cannot risk our current Headmistress as well.” She turned on her heels and headed towards the door with a slightly unsteady gait, bracelets clinking on her arms as she wrenched the door-handle.

“Must you always bait her, Severus?” Flitwick asked under his breath.

Snape met his question with a defiant silence. Sighing reproachfully, Flitwick turned to herd the first-years out.

“The school is not what it used to be, I tell you,” Filch grumbled under his breath. He wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief, leaning heavily on his cane. “With the old Headmaster, we would gather around the fireplace to burn the Yule log at this time. What do these young people know about honouring the tradition?”

Alicia, who happened to be passing him, made a face. “The atmosphere is heated enough already.”

“Happy Christmas, everybody,” Babbling said, adjusting her robe on her shoulders. “Don’t waste the rest of the night on petty squabbles.”

David asked to spend the Christmas Eve with his sister in the Hospital Wing, and for a moment Harry expected Snape to refuse, still riled up, but he gave the boy a curt nod.

“Well, this was fun,” Harry said to Snape under his breath.

“At least it was mercifully short, which is more than could be said about our usual staff parties.”

“Last year I spent my Christmas Eve and Boxing Day dealing with the slug-vomiting outbreak, so this seems like a step up.” He cursed his tongue. Had he really just brought up vomiting slugs to the man he had been flirting with for the past two days? No wonder he was single.

“Boxing Day is yet to come. I’d be loath to encroach on Sybil’s bread and butter, but I predict the next move from our perpetrator, together with more bothersome stupidity from the students, who tend to seek trouble even more than usual this time of the year.”

“Admit it, that gerbil melted your heart.”

“I did consider confiscating the rodent to test some experimental potions,” Snape said with a put-upon expression. “And if you insist on bringing it up, I still might.”

Harry smiled and looked across the staff room, only now noticing that everybody had already left. Only David stood rocking from heel to toe next to Judith in her chair, waiting for Harry in the doorway. The wireless still hummed softly, and the spilled crackers covered the table that was left laden with delicious food. The night still felt young.

“It’s too early,” he said, emboldened. “You should come for a Christmas nightcap.”

“It’s a tempting offer, but we wouldn’t want to give the students fuel for any unfounded rumours, would we?” Snape pointedly looked at David who was throwing curious glances at them.

Harry sighed. The answer was expected, but at least it was worth a try.

“There’s Avicenna’s biography in Poppy’s office,” Snape said after a moment of thought. “It might help you pass the time. Many colourful pictures. Goodnight, Potter.”

With that odd and vaguely insulting advice, Snape strode out of the room.

The elves had already brought David’s things over and lit the fairy lights on Judith’s bedside table by the time Harry and the students got to the Hospital Wing. The fireplace crackled merrily, adding a cosy feeling to the spacious ward. It was almost easy forget about the farthest corner where Smith’s body was lying behind the screen. David gave it a brief nervous look the moment he stepped inside, only to studiously avoid it and focus his attention on his sister from then on.

With warnings not to stay up too late in what he hoped to be a suitably stern tone, Harry ran diagnostic charms over Judith and left them to their own devices. The matron’s office was not a particularly inviting place to spend the rest of the evening. The elves had not bothered to light the fire here and Harry could almost see the puffs of his breath, but he didn’t fancy going to bed just yet. Curiosity winning over him, he found a green tome with worn away, once gilded letters on the shelf.

As soon as he took the book out, the shelf slid forward and away to reveal a niche, causing Harry jump in surprise. Instead of a stone wall, there was a wooden partition. Cautiously, he knocked.

The partition slid with a much heavier sound than his own shelf, revealing Severus Snape in the middle of his own office.

“Neat.” Harry peered inside before stepping aside and letting Snape in with what must have been one of his silliest smiles.

“Indeed,” Snape said as the shelf on his side readjusted behind him. His hair was tied at his nape, emphasising the severe geometry of his face, and he was wearing the deep green, almost black dress robe he had had on for the Christmas dinner. It suited him, but Harry wondered if he’d ever get to see him in less formal attire.

“Do you use the passage a lot?” Harry asked.

“It’s convenient if the Hospital Wing has a critical patient. The Floo system is rather unreliable, as you can see.”

Having checked that the Shaws were safely in their beds, engaged in hushed whispering with the lights out, Harry led Snape to Madam Pomfrey’s living room. The candles sprung to life when they crossed the threshold, to fill it with a warm but muted light. It still felt like an intrusion, being in this old-fashioned, feminine space full of doilies and strange memories, but it was better than trying to have any kind of moment in the office. After this dinner, he was confident their previous interactions were building to something that did not exist solely in his head, and was eager to explore it, even if the circumstances were far from ideal.

He had not expected to feel this connection so strongly just after three days, but when had any emotions between them been anything but strong? Whatever this was they were starting, it could never be casual. Was it worth pursuing a relationship after the school resumed and he would be back to his own demanding workload? With a man who might well face Azkaban charges in the near future, no less?

Catching Snape’s dark eyes and holding his gaze for a moment, Harry knew the answer to this question. It could be the start of something meaningful, if they managed to not kill each other first, of course.

He moved to get the rum he confiscated from David the other night, hoping against hope that it was at least drinkable, but Snape stopped him, sitting down on the paisley sofa and producing a bottle of Scottish whiskey with a golden stag on the label.

“Minerva’s early Christmas present, doubling as an apology,” he explained, conjuring two short stocky glasses on the coffee table. “I’m still not sure about the exact message here, but it will certainly taste better than whatever you got there from Mr. Shaw.”

Harry sat beside him at a distance just this side of proper, half-expecting Snape to hex him for his audacity, despite all the signals. He eyed the year on the label. “The only thing I consistently get from my own boss for Christmas is budget cuts for my ward,” he said. Then again, Hogwarts had a fraction of the staff of St. Mungo’s, who lived in close proximity for years and decades. For better or worse, they felt like a family, however dysfunctional.

“Albus used to send all teachers socks for Christmas,” Snape said with a distant, slightly melancholy look on his face, pouring the golden liquid. “Minerva always said that we were not house-elves, even if our workload suggested otherwise, and if that was his way of dismissing us, he should have spoken clearer.”

Harry smiled and raised his glass slightly. “To better understanding.”

“To better understanding.”

Tasting the burning liquor with its faint aftertaste of honey and heather, he watched Snape do the same, following the workings of his throat, unbound by the high collar once again. When he drew his gaze away from the sight, he noticed Snape watching him intently. He scooted just a little bit closer on the creaky sofa before a half-formed thought stopped him in his track. “Wait. Socks.”

Snape stared at him in irritated incomprehension. “What?”

“Trelawney freaked out at the mere sight of them earlier, remember,” Harry said slowly. He recalled McGonagall mentioning a similar scene this morning. Didn’t she say something about... “Was this reaction because of Dumbledore?”

“There’s no telling what’s going on in the sherry-addled workings of Sybil’s brain. I doubt she has any ill feelings towards Albus. He’s the only reason she has a job, which she should be very grateful to keep.”

Harry put his glass on the coffee table, gears whirring in his head. Something was just outside his reach, something that did not sit right. He sprang to his feet to pace the worn Persian carpet, from the fireplace to the window and back. The roaring of the storm outside had dwindled to an occasional howl, muted moonlight breaking through the clouds. “What if she wasn’t grateful, what with all the strings attached?”

“What are you implying here?”

“You said you didn’t know who else the Headmaster gave those vials with poison to. Why wouldn’t he give one to the bearer of the most important piece of knowledge in the war?” Harry looked out of the window, where the blizzard had finally tapered off to lazy snowflakes. “Bugger.”

Snape joined him at the wide windowsill with its houseplants in colourful flowerpots, and together they watched a cloaked figure hurrying through the gate, leaving a path of melted snow behind.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to my wonderful beta for her suggestions for this chapter (and the rest of the fic, of course). This one was fun to write, but also hard, hard work. Hopefully you'll find it satisfying!  
> As always, thank you for all your comments!

The castle felt spellbound without the incessant lamentations of the wind that had been their soundtrack these past few days, silent and full of anticipation. The sconces poured warm light over the well-trodden stone halls, and Harry’s heart was beating faster, both from the half-forgotten thrill of night-time roaming through the school and doing it side by side with its feared Potion Master instead of running away from him.

“This is madness, Potter,” Snape said under his breath as they climbed the winding stairs to the Divination Tower. “And I’m taking leave of my senses by indulging it. Your theory is an enormous reach.”

Harry was aware of how flimsy his idea was, but something in Trelawney’s glare when Snape explained her radio show fiasco sent all his instincts on alert. If he was entirely honest, Flitwick was right, and Snape did take far too much pleasure in baiting Trelawney, but that look was more than just pissed off. Just for a moment, there was a spark of pure, undiluted hatred, and he could swear it was addressed to both of them.

Why him, Harry could only speculate. Sure, if her predictions were true, he would be dead by the age of fourteen, but why would she decide to take the matter into her own hands now?

“Call it a hunch,” he said. “I know when to listen to them.”

“Even if you are right, that doesn’t necessarily mean Sybil was the one leaving the castle right now. It might just as well have been Bathsheda going back home now that the storm abated, or Wood thinking that Christmas is no excuse to forgo Quidditch training. What is your plan in case Sybil is up there?”

“Since neither of us looks much like Santa, you’ll have to pretend to be the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Harry quipped, trying to lighten the heaviness in his chest. Deep down, he never truly believed he was done with attempts on his life; a part of him always remained on alert. The part that Adrian could have never been able to understand, but, as Harry suspected, Snape would very well.

Was he fated to fend off murderers out to get him every time he entered Hogwarts, though? No, Harry decided, he would leave ponderings about fate to Trelawney. He had enough of that already. He could only hope Trelawney had a new motive that did not yet again relate back to the same old prophecy, but the chances were slim. Perhaps she took offence to the colour of his eyes.

The footsteps behind him broke off, and Harry turned around to see Snape looking at him as if he was a first-year explaining that a crup ate his Potions homework. “If I’m going to explain to Minerva why I broke into Sybil’s quarters, the least you can do is be serious about it.”

“We’ll just cast a sleeping spell. If she's there, chances are she’s blacked out already.”

Harry reached for the handle of the door leading to the Divination classroom, but Snape put his own long-fingered hand over Harry’s briefly before his wand slid into it from his sleeve to cast several revealing spells. The touch, however fleeting, felt like a healthy dose of Pepper-Up. He was absolutely sure there was steam coming from his ears at that moment.

The spells showed no magical protection, and they tiptoed inside. At least, Harry did, because Snape had always possessed a talent of moving absolutely noiselessly when he needed to. Maybe it was simply a silencing spell.

Which was not a bad idea at all, come to think of it. Wordlessly, Harry cast Silencio on his trainers. Even without looking, he could feel Snape laughing at him, although the man hadn’t uttered a sound.

Moonlight reflected in the crystal balls on clothed round tables and glass cabinets filled with china, muting the bold shades of red Harry remembered the plush chairs and the curtains to be. The sickly-sweet scent of perfume still lingered in the air, but without the fireplaces brightly lit even in June, it did not have the same suffocating quality he had come to associate with this classroom.

Trelawney’s personal quarters were over her classroom, connected with another steep winding staircase. It took a lot of determination to maintain a drinking problem when the only way to your home looked like that, Harry thought.

No less than two dozen lanterns of different shapes and colours lit as they entered. Harry bumped his head on the bronze tip of a particularly low hanging one, and it swang to meet its neighbour with a loud clang. He froze, forgetting how to breathe, but no-one rushed at them shrieking ‘Intruders!’, and an open door to the right of them revealed an empty bed, still made. Trelawney wasn’t here.

“I told you it was her leaving.” Rubbing his forehead, he turned to Snape, who rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps she’s out to get some of Aberforth’s Christmas Special.”

“The one that caused the previous magical storm in Hogsmeade?” he asked, recalling the radio program from earlier.

“The less said of that unfortunate incident, the better.” Snape wrinkled his considerable nose, although Harry was unsure whether it was at the memories about the Hog’s Head’s owner or in response to the décor around them.

Hermione, if she were to ever feel charitable to Trelawney, would call this living room bohemian. It was drowning in carpets, rugs and cushions with vaguely exotic patterns, pouffes and low tables with candles and incense sticks, knick-knacks and dirty teacups. Harry’s head spun from the nauseating sweetness of the air and the explosion of clashing colours, and he studiously avoided looking at the tapestry with a giant eye enclosed by a purple hand. He was sure it followed his every move.

Snape busied himself with her bookshelves which were full of titles such as _Future in the Palm of Your Hand_ , _Orus Apollo_ and _Charming the Highlander_. He took the last one.

“Too beefy for my taste,” Harry commented on the cover sporting a man with a sword, wearing only a kilt.

“Very Gryffindor.”

“As a Gryffindor myself, I prefer a Slytherin to balance me out. It’s like—” he gestured at the black and white symbol on the spine of another book on the shelf “—yin and yang.”

“I see you paid attention in Sybil’s class at least,” Snape said, hiding a twitch of his lips.

More than anything, Harry longed to cover them with his own, even though Sybil Trelawney’s living room was the last place he wished to have their first kiss in.

Maybe the environment did not matter too much, after all, he decided as they found themselves standing even closer. A wine-stained piece of parchment chose that moment to fall out of the book Snape absentmindedly thumbed through. Breaking his gaze, Snape caught it, his expression changing as he looked closer. Harry, too, recognised the elegant cursive immediately.

 _“Sybil,”_ the parchment read _. “It is imperative that you do not leave Hogwarts at this time. Your prophecy has unwittingly made you a target of Lord Voldemort, and he will not stop at anything to get you within his reach. My position in the castle has never been more precarious, but Minerva will ensure that Madam Umbridge does not force you to leave your home._

_I understand why you refused to take the potion, but I implore you to reconsider. The fate of the Wizarding World might once again be in your hands._

_“Happy Christmas,  
A. P. W. B. D._

_“P.S. I hope these socks bring you some cheer this festive season. I fear that darker days are coming.”_

“Well, your theory certainly seems more plausible now.” Snape’s voice was tight. He stared at the psychedelic combination of a dream catcher and a Christmas wreath hanging over the mantelpiece. Was he, like Harry, trying to reconcile the woman who hung such decorations with one capable of premeditated murder? “I admit I didn't truly accept the possibility, although perhaps the signs were always there,” he said at last. “Perhaps prejudices clouded my judgement more often than I want to believe.”

Harry stifled an inappropriate smile at the last statement. Maybe Snape had meant more than Trelawney with it.

“And Albus,” Snape said. “Sending her poison with her Christmas present was cold even for his Machiavellian mind.”

“Those might be the socks that got her in a tizzy when McGonagall found her. Let’s try to find them.” If she still kept them, what else might she have kept?

From that, the search went on with a much higher sense of urgency. A pouffe with a tasselled cover by a droopy rubber plant was hiding half-empty bottles of sherry and gin, as well as a stash of the Polyjuice Potion in coloured vials.

Snape smelled the content of one and bared his teeth in malicious amusement. “Too much boomslang skin; I don’t imagine this concoction agreed with her stomach at all.”

The Christmas socks were there as well, nestled between the plant pot and a low sofa covered with mismatched cushions. Their cheery holly pattern looked incongruously innocent given what was stored inside; an empty round vial, identical to the one Snape had shown Harry in his office.

“What can I say, I’m grateful to Sybil’s hoarding tendencies,” Snape finally said after a long moment.

Above them, the eye blinked.

Harry turned to the tapestry, wand out in an instant, but Snape moved in front of him to peer at the pupil and slipped his wand out to wave it over the gaudy wall hanging. It rolled up, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Photo upon photo of himself stared back at them from what looked like a deranged detective’s board. Editorials from before his Hogwarts years, speculating on why Voldemort targeted Potters and how Harry survived, multiple Prophet’s front pages from his sixth year calling Harry the Chosen One and revealing the existence of the prophecy, post-war articles crowning him as the hero that was promised. All the photos were defaced by slashes of red ink, most of them torn from the force of her quill; it looked as if Trelawney had taken a frenzied knife to them. Only one in the middle, a particularly nasty shot from the fifth year entitled ‘Attention-Seeking Liar or a Danger to Himself and Others?’, was relatively untouched. Since it wasn’t related to him being the subject of the prophecy in any way, Trelawney must have included it purely for her amusement.

“Fuck,” was the only thing Harry said. Even though he had expected to find precisely this, his mind still refused to process the identity of the murderer. Did Trelawney really hate him so much? He sagged down on the sofa, remembering the gaunt, shadowed face of Colin Creevey's mother as she was holding a gun in her trembling hand. Somehow, he managed to talk her out of taking revenge for her son's death, but her stalking him in the middle of London a year after the war was an action taken in desperation. Apparently, this here was what a decade worth of a grudge would do to a person.

The post-war corner of the board included some articles on Snape as well, although they were easy to miss on the first glance since Trelawney covered the photos completely in violent strikes. One of them was rather recent, however. ‘Think of the Children!’ it urged in big bold letters, and snidely recapped the Christmas radio show featuring drunk Trelawney in vivid detail. Whom do we entrust with our children, the author asked, quoting an unnamed Hogwarts colleague of Trelawney’s on her being ‘a permanently-intoxicated charlatan who is less likely to make a true prediction than Ludo Bagman to become best friends with a goblin.’ The line was encircled in red ink.

“Well, isn’t this disturbing,” Snape said after what felt like an eternity of staring. Despite the dry tone, he was obviously unsettled, and no amount of downplaying could hide it. “It wasn’t me they cited, whatever Sybil might think. Not that I don’t agree with the sentiment, but the Prophet journalists learned the hard way to stop asking me for comments long ago.”

“Should we call McGonagall?” Harry suggested, unable to look away from a particularly disturbing picture of him with crosses over his eyes and mouth, made with what he hoped was dark red paint.

“It would be for the best, before Sybil returns. If her aim was to blame all this on me, then I suspect she went to get the Aurors to arrest me as soon as possible.” He slashed his wand at the wall, and the tapestry fell back over Trelawney’s mania.

Affecting calm, Harry glanced at the ornate clock on the wall. “I had to deal with the Auror Department on my Christmas shifts more than once. Believe me, they are in no shape to go anywhere by now.”

They left Trelawney’s quarters silently, fully at ease in their new roles as accomplices now.

“Good thinking, Potter,” Snape said grudgingly as they went downstairs.

Safe behind his back, Harry let the biggest pleased smile slip on his face, all thoughts about the murder and the wall of horrors fleeing his mind for a moment. The eighteen-year-old in him who had craved this man’s appreciation after the war was threatening to embarrass him by dancing a celebratory jig, not that his current self, on the brink of falling hard, was processing it more maturely. “You could call me Harry, you know,” he said, pushing his luck.

“I’ll consider it. Perhaps successfully finding evidence in this migraine-inducing Aladdin’s cave does warrant the use of first names.”

“Does that mean I can call you Severus?”

“Don’t overuse it.”

He was going to do just that, when Severus’s steps halted, and his shoulders tensed. Before Harry could ask what was wrong, he saw the reason himself. Sybil Trelawney was coming towards them, the star-embroidered hem of her cloak drenched in melted snow, her cheeks red.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked, her voice rising shrilly. 

“What is a used vial of the poison that killed Zacharias Smith doing stuffed in a Christmas sock in your quarters?” Severus countered in an impassive tone.

Well, why not go all out, Harry thought. There really was no need to beat around the bush anymore.

Trelawney blanched and reached for her wand, but halfway through the motion seemed to change her mind. “What a preposterous thing to say,” she breathed out, not quite managing to assume her usual misty expression. “No amount of disgraceful snooping would reveal something that is not there, unless, of course, you yourself planted it.” She turned to Harry. “What tales has he spun to you about me? There are no depths this black-hearted man wouldn’t sink to in order to tarnish my name!”

“So you don’t, in fact, have a used poison vial stuffed in a Christmas sock in your quarters?” Harry clarified.

Trelawney narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I see. You are firmly under his thrall, believing this ludicrous accusation. Believe me, I would never wish ill on our dear Zacharias. He was one of the few in this castle respectful of my art.”

“Only Smith wasn’t your target, was he?” Harry asked, circling her should she try to escape. “Your poison was intended for me, and you went to great lengths to get me to Hogwarts where you can use it.”

“I think you’ve celebrated Christmas a little too much, Healer Potter.” Her voice rose high. “I am a Seer; I can look into the future, but manipulating it is beyond my capabilities.”

The dislike seeping through cracks in the facade she was putting was clear now. Was she caught unaware, or maybe Harry just hadn’t paid enough attention?

“You knew Madam Pomfrey would be away, busy with the birth of her great-grandson. And you knew she usually requested me from St. Mungo’s if the need arose. You just needed to make sure it did,” he continued. “So you Polyjuiced into Judith Shaw’s yearmate and cursed her in the way that would need extensive treatment.”

Trelawney took an involuntary step back, only to bump up against the tapestry between the bottom of the stairs and the suit of armour, probably the one McGonagall had found her under the day before.

“You went to the Great Hall before dawn, after the house-elves laid the table, and applied the poison to my goblet. You didn’t count, however, on the appearance of Zacharias Smith, who came in already drunk and riled up, and grabbed it, ranting about me. You see, he couldn’t stand drinking from a lesser quality goblet when I was undeservedly, in his opinion, presented with the goblin-made one. So you hid behind the Christmas tree, not that Smith was likely to notice anyone besides himself at this point, and watched him ingest your poison. Did you even think to stop him at any point? His rant would give you more than enough time for that. No, you didn’t, and not only because it would be hard to explain. You let Smith drink it, and you waited some more until everyone stopped their night-time wanderings before silencing your steps and sneaking away," Harry guessed the last part, remembering the detail that bothered him in Filch's recounting after he learnt about Grubbly. "Because even if you couldn’t get to me, you still had another grudge to settle. Whether Smith or I died from your poison, Severus Snape would be framed for it, as he was the one who brewed it originally.”

“This is a fascinating theory, but why would I do something like that?” Trelawney asked in a honeyed voice, regaining some of her calm. Only her hands fisting the hems of her sleeves betrayed her nerves. “Wouldn’t it be reasonable to suspect Severus if he indeed confessed to being the brewer? I admit I don’t see eye to eye with him, but I’ve never had anything but fondness for you. Is it my predictions during your school years that made you come to such a silly conclusion? I was just looking out for you. You have always been a magnet to death.”

That stung, but Harry didn’t let it get to him. He opened his mouth to bring up the wall, but Severus, who had listened to the comments about him with a sardonic look, gave him an imperceptible shake of his head, producing Dumbledore’s letter from his pocket and reading the first lines out loud.

Trelawney’s eyes widened and she lunged at Severus, interrupting him. “Give it to me!”

“I don’t think so,” Severus said, putting it back into his pocket.

“I don’t see how it proves anything about the current events,” she said, her jaw set. “Aurors aren’t stupid, and neither am I, no matter what you and the Headmaster you killed thought. Although I must admit it has its benefits, this image of an alcoholic with my head in the clouds. Nobody pays attention to what they are discussing in front of me.”

“Oh, you mean to say that you drinking a bottle of sherry before the clock strikes midday is an elaborate ruse?”

“We all have our vices to get us through the day in this godforsaken castle. You are the last person to judge my choice of them, as one of those directly responsible for chaining me to Hogwarts and ruining my life.”

“Ruining your life?” Severus repeated, disdain dripping from his voice. “What do you know about ruined lives? You get to live in a castle and get paid for spewing some nonsense about tea leaves a couple of days a week, the simplest task you can’t even do professionally.”

“Your misfortunes are direct, if insufficient, results of your own bad decisions,” she scoffed. “But I didn’t ask for any of this. You degrade my teaching abilities, which is ironic coming from a man unlikely to get any educator-of-the-year awards any time soon, I might add. Do you know how many times I tried to quit?” Her eyes clouded. “I’ve never been appreciated here, a target of close-minded ridicule from certain students and members of staff alike. So I looked for other opportunities, and found some, only to be disappointed in the outcome each time I came close to alternate employment.” Her eyes hardened. “And all because some random babe barely out of his nappies and a man who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Have you considered that the reason for that was not Dumbledore’s nefarious scheming but you exposing yourself for the fraud you are?” asked Severus.

“I know better than to expect even a sliver of compassion for my circumstances from you, but I’m at least entitled to my gift being acknowledged! You know full well that it is genuine, knew from the start. And still you insist on slandering me, to the staff, to the students, and even to the press!”

“You delivered a true prophecy once, I’ll give you that. Your chances to repeat that feat on demand are smaller than being struck by lightning in my dungeons. And for the record, I wasn’t the one who gave that comment to the Prophet, so you can remove it from your little moodboard.”

Trelawney reared back, and her thin mouth twisted in a grimace. “Found it, did you? Well, well, well, I guess I shouldn’t’ve expected less from our resident master spy. That’s always been your golden excuse for everything, Snape, why not now? Potter here is immune to the Killing Curse, and you’ve been immune to any consequences of your actions. Revealed as a Death Eater, not once but twice? Spy for the Headmaster. Killed the same Headmaster to take his place? Did it to continue spying under his orders; very convenient since Dumbledore is dead and cannot testify against this ridiculous idea the whole Wizarding World somehow swallowed. Being a foul-mouthed, conceited filth to everybody around, including innocent students? I’m sure your spy position somehow explains that as well, since the student you bullied the most grew up to follow you like a lost puppy.” She gave a disdainful nod in Harry’s direction, never taking her eyes from Severus, who was listening to her with a blank expression. “No crime of yours ever sticks, no matter how foul, while other, infinitely more deserving people, are being dragged through the mud for the smallest missteps!”

“Missteps like showing up pissed and making a fool of yourself live on radio?” Severus solicitously clarified. “You could see it as the final straw and quit the bottle for good, but instead, you decided to exact your revenge on those who rightfully called you out.”

“Incessantly ridiculed, you mean.”

“And while we’re talking revenge and murder,” Severus continued. “Myself, I understand, but why Potter? He didn’t do anything to you other than being born at the wrong time.”

“No, he didn’t.” Trelawney glowered at Harry again. “And yet he’s lauded as a hero, while I, the true reason for his fame and glory, remain in the dust, unacknowledged and disrespected.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief. Was she really that delusional?

“I admit I had a sliver of doubt about you at first, Potter, even despite your ungratefulness. But then you swanned into the castle as if you owned it, laughing at me behind my back with this man, and I knew I was right about you since you were a student here, one of the many loud mediocrities with neither aptitude nor appreciation for my art.” She flourished her arms about in agitation. “And look what you’ve done with your life now that you don’t have my prophecy to guide you? Some lowly Healer. The Wizarding World doesn’t need you anymore, but your death would serve well to bring its greatest remaining villain to justice.”

“So you admit that you intended to kill Potter but poisoned Smith instead?” asked Severus, looking momentarily flabbergasted at the title.

“And what if I did? Nobody will believe you, the obvious suspect. Potter must be under a love potion; everyone will testify about him making eyes at you these past days.” She scrunched her nose as if smelling something bad. “The letter doesn’t prove anything other than that I had that poison more than a decade, together with half of your precious Order, I’m sure. And you’ve been caught red-handed ferreting around my Tower, so any evidence found there could be explained by that.”

“Headmistress saw more than she should have here in your quarters as well, didn’t she?” said Harry. “That’s why you attacked her.”

“Minerva wouldn’t see the truth if it hit her in the face. That would require her to admit I’m capable of something beyond being her eternal punching bag. I enjoyed a little bit of punching back, I’ll have to admit.” She moved towards Severus, right hand buried in the folds of her long patterned skirt, undoubtedly holding a wand. “Now let me through, boys. I have to consult my crystal ball on which outfit to wear as they cart you off to Azkaban, Severus.”

If anything, Harry had to admire the sheer audacity of this woman. She was cornered, yet she was set on keeping up her bluff. She must have had extensive practice in that with her phoney predictions.

Severus did not budge, blocking the stairs, just as a tabby cat darted from behind the suit of armour. With a hiss, it transformed into Minerva McGonagall, her robe loosely wrapped over her sleeping gown.

“Not so fast, Sybil,” she said, her voiced ringing with steel. “Your confessions were just getting interesting.”

Not one muscle moved on Severus’s face in surprise at the Headmistress's appearance, and Harry wondered if he had noticed her animagus form before.

For the first time, panic entered Trelawney’s expression. She raised her chin, but her voice was brittle. “I was not going to kill you, Minerva, put your worries to rest. Just a little Obliviation against a situation just as this. You are extremely slow on the uptake though; you should work on unblocking your chakras.”

“This has been going on for long enough,” Severus said, raising his wand.

Before he could cast any spells, however, the excited voice of Calliope Fawley rang resoundingly from the tapestry behind Trelawney’s back. “I wonder what’s on the other side of this passage.”

“Maybe we’ve finally found the kitchens?” Harry heard, with a sense of foreboding, Emily Chang ask.

Fast as lightning, Trelawney tore off the tapestry and grabbed a surprised Emily by her wrist, pushing the girl in front of her. Emily squeaked, looking between Severus and McGonagall in disorientated horror, not realising yet that it wasn't them she should be afraid of.

Trelawney pointed her wand right at Emily’s temple, the other hand moving to grip the girl’s shoulder with bruising force. There was a gasp from behind the tapestry as Calliope peeked through. Harry gestured for her to hide again, so she wouldn’t make things worse when she inevitably decided to come to her friend’s help.

“You can always count on Gryffindor nosiness to guide them to all the wrong places. Or exactly where they are needed; it’s a matter of perspective, I suppose,” Trelawney mused.

Snape let a string of curses under his breath. Despite the situation, Harry was impressed with his vocabulary and suspected only half of it was directed at Trelawney.

“Let Miss Chang go, Sybil,” said McGonagall. “You are better than this.”

“Don’t pull an Albus on me, Minerva, it doesn’t suit you at all,” Trelawney said, the airiness returning to her voice. “Now move aside and don’t try anything funny. You do not want to check whose spells travel faster, because I won’t be wasting mine on a stunner.”

She moved to the stairs, keeping her back firmly planted against the wall and never letting her gaze from the three of them.

“Please let me go,” Emily begged, tears swimming in her black eyes as they were going up. She looked at Harry pleadingly, causing his wand hand to jolt in a desperate attempt to do something.

“I said no funny business!” Trelawney warned, her hand moving to cover Emily’s mouth. “Silence, girl. You will do what I say if you want to live.”

Just as she relished in her prophetess persona, Trelawney seemed to lean into the hardened criminal act fully.

“Her tower is a dead end,” McGonagall said after they disappeared upstairs. “The Floo network is unlikely to get repaired on Boxing Day, so she has nowhere to go from there.”

“The murderous incense sachet here always claimed that brooms made her dizzy, but I wouldn’t rule out that she has one,” said Snape.

Harry opened his mouth to swear, only to close it after he heard sobs from the secret passage.

“It’s all my fault!” Calliope cried. “Please get Emily back, and I’ll never break another rule, I promise!”

“We’ll get your friend back safely, Callie,” said Harry.

“I shall try an alternate route. _Evanesco_!” Severus vanished the stained glass in the closest window and climbed on the ledge in a surprisingly swift motion for a person spending most of his time underground over a cauldron. “You and Chang are scrubbing the cauldrons every day until your graduation, and then some. And squeezing Bubotuber pus. Gallons upon gallons of Bubotuber pus. Without gloves.”

“Yes, Professor,” Callie said meekly, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Be careful, Severus,” said McGonagall with a pained expression. Harry wondered if she was thinking of his escape from her during the Battle of Hogwarts and her distrust of him, then and now.

With an incline of his half-turned head, Severus took off into the night. Harry tried his best to squash any comparisons with bats to the furthest corner of his mind, a task that would get the better of even the most accomplished Occlumens.

Just as Severus flew up to the Tower, one of the windows opened. No, Trelawney did not have a broom after all. The light from her room illuminated her sitting on one of her Persian carpets, her back against a lumpy suitcase that made the carpet sag on that side. Emily, seated in front of her, still at wandpoint, was trembling from fear and cold in her thin dress.

Why couldn’t Trelawney be more into Quidditch, Harry thought despondently, leaning out the window. He was confident he could hit a broomrider, but the carpet would get in the way of any spell he sent to her from underneath. He ground his teeth. The feeling of helplessness was unbearable, but he trusted Severus to do things right.

Almost invisible against the dark sky and the walls, Severus floated behind Trelawney as she tried to manoeuvre the cumbersome carpet. Harry didn’t hear his Expelliarmus, but Trelawney’s shriek as she tried in vain to catch her wand flying away from her was loud and clear.

“It's over Sybil,” he said. “Land the carpet or I’ll land it for you.”

Clearly panicked, she made several fretful moves that made the carpet wobble and jolt in different directions. Emily screamed, and it took Harry a second to realise why from his low vantage point at the window. Trelawney was pushing the girl down.

Emily tried to grasp the edge for a moment, but a grown woman was stronger than an eleven-year-old child, and with a piercing shriek, she plummeted.

“EMILY!” Calliope cried, rushing to the paneless window.

Reflexively, Harry drew her to his side, his wand hand shooting out. Before he had time to cast anything, however, Severus dove after Emily, casting spells to slow down her fall.

Trelawney threw out her suitcase as well, and it hurtled to the ground unstopped. With much less weight, the carpet’s speed doubled, and Harry realised he needed to do something now, or she would get away by the time Severus caught Emily, who was flailing her arms as if trying to cling to the thin air.

Hitting Trelawney herself was even more impossible now, so he had to go for the carpet. _Incendio_? No, it had to be one shot.

“ _Emmailloteo_!” he cast, and the carpet folded on itself, swaddling Trelawney in a tight cocoon.

“What? No! Let me go, you stupid rag!” Sybill thrashed inside, but the carpet obeyed Harry’s spell and stayed safely in place, floating in the air.

Severus flew through the window, Emily in his arms. Laughing hysterically through her sobs, Callie rushed to her friend, flinging herself at them. McGonagall smiled wryly at his dismayed expression. He knew very well how to deal with mortal danger, but little Gryffindors hugging him were obviously an uncharted territory.

Summoned by Harry, Trelawney’s arrival was rather bumpier. Swathed in the threadbare Persian carpet, she hit the floor with a thud accompanied by generous swearing.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” said McGonagall. “This kind of language is unsuitable for the ears of our students.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed the gates opening down on the ground. McGonagall looked out of the window with a weary expression, visibly steeling herself for a long conversation with the Aurors. In any other case, Harry would be happy to let someone else deal with the aftermath, but she looked uncharacteristically frail after all the trials and tribulations of the day. As her Healer, he should put her on bed rest starting from this moment, but as her former student, he knew he would be lucky to at least make her drink some Pepper-Up.

Severus attempted to put Emily down and shake Callie off, but they were having none of it, clinging to his robes like monkeys. Emily was still sobbing uncontrollably, and Callie alternated between comforting her friend and thanking him. He looked to Harry with a silent plea for help. Since it was still Severus, the plea looked more like a command and promised doom if Harry did not obey at once.

Taking pity on him, Harry moved to do just that. There would still be time to tease Severus for becoming Gryffindor’s favourite teacher tomorrow.


	14. Chapter 14

The Aurors finally left when the winter sun was high on the horizon, cold like Narcissa Malfoy’s high society smile, bringing the dead body of Zacharias Smith and freshly unswathed Trelawney with them. She alternated between wailing about slander and promising years of doom on the Aurors; it was apparently extremely bad luck to arrest a Seer. The carpet was confiscated as well, since they were still illegal in Britain. In fact, her owning it seemed to outrage the Aurors more than the wall of defaced photos, which they had studied upon arrival with vaguely bored expressions.

Harry watched them pass through the Hogwarts gates from the Matron’s office window before making a detour to the bathroom to splash his face with ice-cold water and get rid of the morning stubble. Some years ago he had attempted a fashionable three-day stubble look but given up on the idea after Hermione had taken one look at him and asked if he had been having war flashbacks again.

He was glad he had never experimented with razors when the water in the sink bubbled and overflowed, and Moaning Myrtle surged out, hovering between him and the mirror. Thankfully, he was still using the spell Ron taught him in their fifth year, or Nearly-Headless Nick might have gotten himself a companion.

“The portraits are all going crazy,” she said, her voice wobbling with excitement. “They say it was the Divination Professor; she killed two other people and there was a giant bird involved.”

“What?” Harry asked, dumbfounded at the castle rumour mill at work.

“There are only tapestries in the Divination Corridor, and it’s a wonder we could get even that from them. You try to decipher the pantomime by stick figures!”

“Nobody was killed, no giant birds,” said Harry. When Myrtle did not move, he added, “And yes, it was Trelawney."

Still she did not budge, looking at him expectantly.

"Myrtle. Go away and let me finish.”

“Fine,” she whined and dove back into the sink with a mighty splash, leaving Harry to curse and dry his drenched clothes that were turning ice-cold very fast.

In the Hospital Wing, the Shaw siblings were joined by their parents, who had learned about Judith from David’s letter just before the storm cut Hogwarts off. Harry could not even imagine how sick with worry they must have been these past few days. Mrs. Shaw was hugging her children again and again, her face tear-stained; the details of the attack on her daughter coupled with the news of her brother’s death had hit her hard.

She wanted to take the children home for the rest of the holidays at once, but Harry insisted on keeping Judith in Hogwarts for another night for observation. As a Healer, he would have suggested this in any case, but he was glad for the chance to stay in the castle for one more day himself.

Emily and Calliope were still awake as well, having just finished explaining Emily’s kidnapping to the Aurors. They both had sung praises to Severus, oblivious to the Aurors’ souring faces, and the latest recounting already sounded more honed and colourful than the first one, told in halting whispers to David and Judith despite Harry’s strict instructions to sleep. Beneath the white hospital sheets, they looked especially small and fragile, and Harry could not help but think of the young Ron, barely older than the girls, getting smashed in the head by the giant chess set, or, hell, himself facing Voldemort for the first time. They had felt so clever, so ready to tackle those dangers headfirst, heedless of their mortality. So sure of themselves. Merlin, they must have been sillier than these children here.

Voldemort was gone, but students kept getting hurt in Hogwarts. As a Headmistress, McGonagall seemed to be an improvement over Dumbledore with his laissez-faire attitude, but she was not interested in any radical changes. In fact, she had awarded back the additional hundred points Severus had deducted in an attempt to stop the girls from thanking him any more, ‘for exceptional bravery’, as she put it, and added another ten ‘in the spirit of Christmas.’ Were Harry a student, he would cheer along with Emily and Callie, but as a Healer who had been dealing the results of children’s recklessness for years, he related to Severus and his discontented frown much more. They did not need that encouragement.

Someone had to look out for them, Harry thought, and he was more ready than ever to take Madam Pomfrey on her offer whenever she decided to retire. Not to mention that working under Healer Smith would become exponentially harder once she learned that he was the true target of the poison that killed her son.

Stepping out of the Hospital Wing after administering a mild sleeping drought to the exhausted but overexcited girls, Harry came face to face with a whole crowd: almost every other resident of the castle was here, eagerly awaiting answers. Trelawney’s name was already being passed around.

“I’d never have thought her capable of something like that,” said Oliver. He was wearing his cloak, and his broom was carefully propped against the nearest wall. His curiosity seemed to have won, however, and he was staying to learn the news. “Although if you spend your time listening to voices from teacups, who knows what they’ll end up telling you. That’s why I love Quidditch so much. No philosophising, just my broom and balls.”

“That’s not what Divination—” Alicia beside him started, only to cut herself off and shake her head. “I can’t believe it either.”

“She stepped on Dolores’s tail again this month,” Filch said in a tone of finality. “Remember that stuttering professor, Quirrell? He was fond of the bottle too, poor chap, bless his turban, so much that he would talk to the walls all the time in his last year. But he never, not once, did something like that!”

McGonagall made her way through the crowd, dark circles under her eyes more pronounced than ever. “Please proceed to the staffroom; I’m going to explain everything.” She nodded to Harry who hurried over to her. “Yes, Harry, I know. I’ll be on my best patient behaviour once I’ve made this announcement. Although I suppose I first need to notify the Board of Governors...”

“I’ll make sure she finally complies with your orders, Healer Potter,” Grubbly said at her side. He had just been leaving the Headmistress’s office in search for McGonagall when she had invited the Aurors there for questioning at night. Apparently, McGonagall had had second thoughts about Trelawney’s drunk ramblings from the day before after Severus’s Legilimency had made her relive her memories of them. Grubbly had dismissed her concerns as ludicrous. Waking up in an empty bed—the detail that had made the Aurors, all of whom must have graduated Hogwarts with McGonagall as a Professor, sputter—he had correctly guessed where she had been. To Headmistress’s increasing irritation, he could not stop apologising for doubting her suspicions and catastrophising the dangers she would have faced in her current weak state without Severus and Harry there. McGonagall indulged him, patiently enduring his protectiveness. Harry tried his best to hide his smile. Grubbly had grown on him over the night, and he privately thought they were a rather sweet couple.

Headmistress’s speech was short and to the point, recounting the events of the night without diving into Trelawney’s motivations. Harry could not be more thankful for that. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to delay once again being the centre of attention for just a little bit longer.

When the group dispersed from the staffroom, he spotted Madam Pomfrey coming from the Entrance Hall. Happy to see her usual busy gait, he nevertheless felt a pang of disappointment: his presence in the castle might not be needed any longer, after all.

“Oh my goodness, what happened here while I was away?” she asked. “I just popped up to see how you’re faring, only to meet the Aurors escorting Sybil!”

Relieved that she did not apparently intend to stay just yet, Harry motioned to the Hospital Wing. “Let’s go to your office, and I’ll explain everything.”

The conversation took a better part of an hour, and by the end of it, as always after talking with Madam Pomfrey, Harry was reassured that he had made the right choice with Paediatrics. He could easily talk to her for longer, but she sensed his impatience and sent him away, to see the one person who had been absent from Harry’s sight the entire morning.

As the dungeons approached, he felt more and more jittery. Of course, Severus might have simply been catching up with his sleep, but somehow Harry doubted that. It was entirely possible that he had spent all morning convincing himself that having a romantic relationship with Harry—a known dunderhead and magnet for trouble—was just not worth it. The possibility of rejection cut deeper than it had any reason to after only a few days, but then these were the few days that came on top of a lifetime of having their destinies intertwined.

Harry shook his head; the destiny business staged a comeback the last night, and it was entirely unwelcome. This, however, was a path that led somewhere new. And Harry resolved to make sure that he had a chance to explore it.

Severus took his time to answer the door, although the half-drank cup Harry spotted steaming on the coffee table suggested that he had been a few feet away all the while. He let Harry in with a reserved expression that seemed to confirm Harry’s worst fears.

“Potter—”

Without waiting for any undoubtedly well-crafted reasons to come from Severus’s mouth, Harry lunged at him, cutting them off. He would always have an advantage when it came to words, but Harry could put all his half-formed hopes and feelings into one desperate kiss. For a moment, Severus’s lips were unmoving, but then he responded just as frantically, grabbing a fistful of Harry’s jumper to push him against the door.

This was everything Harry expected it to be and more, and he wrapped his arms around Severus’s middle to make sure he was not going anywhere. “It’s Harry, remember?” he corrected as they slowed down, leaning into the hand that came up to cup his face.

With a last, almost furtive, stroke to his cheekbone, the hand disappeared, but Harry held fast.

“Harry,” Severus repeated almost musingly. “You know all the reasons to stop here just as well as I do.”

“And none of them are good enough.”

“Still as reckless as always. You've seen what happens to Gryffindors who don’t heed warnings.”

“You fly after them and catch them?”

“Brat,” Severus harrumphed. “And those girls will still face consequences of their actions, believe me.” He took a step back, and Harry let him, already feeling his absence. After a moment of studying Harry’s face, Severus said, “You’re going back to your London life, and I’m having my demanding duties here.” His voice was measured. “I’m a possessive man. I would not take lightly to having you for one night and then going back to watching you gallivant with other men in the papers.”

“Most of my supposed gallivanting usually takes place only in the imagination of the reporters,” Harry said. “As for my London work, well. I've just had a talk with Madam Pomfrey; she returned this morning. She plans to retire after this year, and the job is mine if I want it.”

“Just because—”

“No, no,” Harry interrupted, realising how clingy his announcement could be interpreted. “I’d been seriously thinking about it even before I came here, but these past days settled it. It’s time for me to return to Hogwarts. Not that we couldn’t make it work without sharing a castle,” he added. “We’re wizards, after all, and Scotland is just one apparition away.”

“And what would the Wizarding World think once it learns that their hero is involved with a man such as I? What would your friends think?”

“My friends just want me to be happy, and the Wizarding World wants me to be its dancing monkey. I don’t care about the rot the Prophet prints, I told you already. Come to think of it, they’ll probably come up with an affair between us anyway once I’m working here, just as they did with me and half of my ward. With Smith dead, the only other option is Flitwick.”

“You won’t be easy to dissuade, then?” Severus asked, and something told Harry that he wanted his dissuasion to work just as little as Harry himself wanted to be dissuaded.

“No.”

“Very well, then. I could never prevent you from going forward with your foolhardy plans, but don’t complain when it all goes horribly wrong. I did try.”

Buoyant feeling rising in his chest, Harry stole another kiss.

* * *

“Ravenclaw!”

With a proud smile, Harry watched his godson join the eagles. One of the perks of Harry’s new job was the opportunity to be there for him, instead of missing the milestone after milestone with his busy St. Mungo’s schedule. Sitting down among the cheers and applause, Teddy caught his eyes, excitement watered by just a dash of uncertainty, even though Harry had made sure Teddy knew that he would be equally happy with any decision of the Sorting Hat. He gave his godson a thumbs up. Between Andromeda and Severus, introduced to him some months ago, Harry almost expected Teddy to be convinced to choose Slytherin, but it seemed his inquisitive nature won.

The next firstie, a tiny girl with an angelic face and pigtails, was sent to Gryffindor the moment the hat touched her head, and Harry resolved to keep an eye on her. Especially as she sat next to Emily, who drew her into some lively conversation right away. Callie waved at him from her other side, and Harry smiled. Something told him that they would not let him get complacent here at Hogwarts.

“The newest addition to the troublemakers is already conspiring with the worst reprobates, Merlin help us.” Apparently, Severus was having similar thoughts.

“Admit it, you grew fond of the girls by the end of those detentions,” Harry said. Severus was vague on what exactly they did there, but by the end of April, Callie was no longer afraid to approach a boiling cauldron, and by the end of May, she was one of the best Potions students in her year. “You even seriously considered cutting them short.” Of course, Severus's efforts somewhat backfired, as the cauldron became another tool in their arsenal of trouble.

“Perhaps. But that was before the Grand Gerbil Debacle.”

“You didn’t like the Defence temp anyway.” The man managed to hit on Harry every time he visited the castle, and Harry suspected that Severus played a much more active part in driving the overly-friendly Professor Orbison away than he let on.

The Headmistress delivered a short speech and motioned for the feast to begin. Between Trelawney’s case and Grubbly’s scandalous divorce from the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Harry’s relationship with Severus went relatively unnoticed by the headlines. By contrast, the reporters pestered McGonagall relentlessly on both. Faint guilt gnawed at Harry at how grateful he was to her for avoiding the front pages this once.

Digging into a generous piece of steak and kidney pie, Harry sighed contentedly. He thought about his new office and the quarters he now shared with Severus. They had argued about the logistics of the move for the better part of the summer, ready for this next step but realising their duties called for them to be within the students’ reach at any time. In the end, they had not needed to worry: when Harry had arrived att the Hospital Wing a week before the start of the school year, the door to his personal rooms led from his office straight to Severus’s quarters, freshly expanded. He still had a couple of boxes to unpack, but his lime-green Healer robes already hung alongside Severus’s black ones in the wardrobe. Not that Harry intended to wear them now he was not with St. Mungo’s anymore, but it was fun to convince Severus that he was.

Even though Severus had warned him that the next few weeks would be hectic, Harry privately hoped they would have a chance for a small private celebration after the feast was over. Maybe they could—

“Coleman!”

The Slytherin part of the Great Hall was in a commotion around an upper-year girl collapsing over the table. With another, much different, sigh, Harry stood up, just as Severus did the same. Celebrations would have to wait.

* * *

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This fic was conceived in December last year, and I hoped to have it written by March, but here I am, finishing my Christmas story during some of the worst July heatwaves. Hope you enjoyed it!


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